I am worried that they have drink stowed aboard, and they might eventually get the hang of the rowing boat. It is only one nautical mile of frenzied, testosterone and human flesh-fuelled, bearded rowing to my Friesians. Who had an uncomfortable night in the stalls, during the storms. I could still detect the plaintive, haunted drunken voices of the stranded sailors though, on the still, sticky night air. And the ethereal haunting song of Noreen the siren, atop an abandoned supermarket trolley, its dull chrome glinting pulsingly in the intermittent, heavy moonlight.