Wednesday, 20 January 2021


I am with two men who are building the (timber) hull of a ship. They seem to be competing with one another and, until their respective fathers and grandmothers appear, I have the impression that they are brothers. The deck of the ship – which is moored and afloat in a flooded dry dock – is completely clear, all the work, on a network of long access corridors and rooms, is being conducted below. At one point it is as if we are all (somehow) suspended and we are using our feet to turn, submerge and (thereby) test the watertight nature of the bows/hull. (Of course, as well as our unusual means of suspension, the hull seems tiny as we easily rotate it and dunk it under the water with our feet.) I am below deck and helping a man (possibly some sort of build quality inspector) to shuffle a bunch of intricate (but quite flat) architectural models to one side to allow us to put a model (of the ship?) in their place. We are in one of the corridors and the models are resting on a timber, table-esque shelf-

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