I wake up everyday, to blue skies and sunshine. This island doesn’t know the meaning of bad weather.
It helps to wake up to bright light every day, unlike England – dark, gloomy and brooding, always making my moods worse.
Mother must probably be crying her eyes out everyday – I feel a pang of guilt at the thought. I doubt Father cries, though he might feel bad – I think. Selena and Brian too. They must think of me…but I think that their thoughts may be spurred by the way in which I’ve disappeared – and less to do with me, myself.
After all, in all the time that I was there, all I ever heard them do was complain about how shiftless I was or how downcast or how pessimistic. What is that new-fangled saying? My glass is always half empty.
Over the years, I tired of it. It’s hard enough being me, it’s hard enough waking up and going through each day and the cumbersome waltzes human society puts in place – but add to that the crushing expectation of having to be like that Pollyanna woman all that time?
When I heard of the ship’s departure, I knew I had to seize my chance. I boarded, bribed the captain, and told him to tell everyone I was lost in a pirate skirmish. When we landed on this island, his crew helped knock up a house and a garden for fresh vegetables, left me with supplies and a flare kit – and left.
A year later, the captain came by – to check on me. And with him came new books, new supplies and more. I’ve willed my estate in Brazil to him as payment. And his son started the tradition this year.
I’ve been here 14 years. And I haven’t regretted it once.
I wake up, I tend my garden, I read my books, I write. I walk around the island four or five times a day.
No one accuses me of being a fusspot. Or a pessimist. Or unhumourous. Or uncouth.
Here, I am perfect.