The Island Part 3 By Adam Atkinson

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

In August of 2006, Adam Atkinson went missing - he was last seen on a remote island off the coast of Suffolk. All that was found was his log book and a battered camera ...

Monday: Those birds still scratching on the roof again, some might find that quite annoying, not me though. I could really do with a crap, 2 nights of steaks starting to take its path. Would have gone yesterday but it was engaged, I think there was a spider reading the Express, wouldn't be surprised, the size of the buggers round ere. Jesus mercy I've offended myself. I hate chemical toilets, there's no way of getting rid of the evidence, come slops day I'll be paying most of the bill.

There's a family of hares living on the scrub outside the hut. Scampering little things that shun human contact, just to get a photo of one of em I had to disguise myself as a nettle. The secret to disguising yourself as a nettle is to lie in a bunch of nettles and then try to ignore the creeping ivy in your boxer shorts.

The heavens opened today. Wading in Dovey's lagoon up to the Wellingtons in well I think its London Clay, it'd better be London Clay.

Spent the entire afternoon breaking collected soil samples into very muddy water, the next task is to fish microscopic invertebrates out with tweezers and put them in jars. I think the mainlanders count them to test the water quality of the lagoon, either that or force them to fight each other in pitched battles to the death. The job is long and laborious but it has to be done, if not me then WHO? If there's one pigeon hole I'd nail my flag to, that stone around my neck would be environmentalist.

The bottle of whisky I brought is going down alarmingly fast, ah sod it ive earnt it, eres to good health and a lack of reality. Can see the town of Orford a mile away from the few vantage points around the island, the flickering lights of the village pub twinkle with temptation. The days go fast - I'm busy and focused, the nights are a different matter. I've always got my clockwork radio I s'pose, though the choice between BBC Suffolk and Classic Fm can be a veritable minefield of cultural delights. Thank fuck the bastard thing runs down every five minutes.

Continued .. Part 4

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