Its so ... Its so UNFAIR.

Why is it, that every SINGLE time I have the chance to be a hero, some pompous/gorgeous/pirate individual breezes in and RUINS EVERYTHING.

On top of that, it took me 4 HOURS to clean the soot out of my hair. My poet shirt? Ruined. And it was my FAVOURITE.

And don't even get me STARTED on my new tights and buckles. I hope that, that PIRATE knows it was three swords worth of clothing he smeared his FILTH over.

I'm so upset. I can't even be bothered to tell that stupid next-doors cat to piss off. Infact I think I've done the opposite. I think I've attracted it.

Earlier...

ME: -Hammering some iron- STUPID. COMMODORE. MR. TURNSFORD. INDEED. ELIZABETH. UNFAIR. DEATH.SADNESS. WOE.

NEXT-DOORS CAT: -Sidles in through the window and rubs itself against my leg-

ME: Listen CAT, I'm not in the mood for your GAMES tonight, I'm fragile - I'm... TALKING TO A CAT.

NEXT-DOORS CAT: -understanding glances-

So I gave it some milk. And a fish.

OK it was more than that. I went down to the pier and caught the fish myself. But the cat deserved it! It looked hungry. And I got a moonlit bathe into the deal, so really everyone won.

Except for a slight ... a slight INCIDENT, which occured whilst I was swimming.

You see, it was a spur of the moment event. I had walked the two or three miles it is down to the coast with the intent of feeding this compassionate - if sexually agrivated - moggy, and was standing admiring the clear moon lighting up the sleepy bay of Port Royal. It was deadly quiet out there, save for the swell of the waves, and I took this to be a good sign, as I had already tripped over a HORRENDOUSLY misplaced rock and fallen flat on my face.

But NOONE saw it.

This meant it was to be a good evening.

And I got to thinking about Jack Sparrow, and Elizabeth, and how Elizabeth probably likes a spontaneous man, the kind who would whisk her away to a secret corner in the middle of the night and, and perhaps read her a verse or two of secret heartwrenching poetry, and then allow her to bathe his masculine if sensitive brow.

And yes, in my case, she would probably be expected to mop my tears as well.

THAT is the extent of my passion to Miss Swann! I can barely CONTAIN my words on paper. And I know, given the chance, she would appreciate this in a man.

So in a moment of adrenaline-fuelled spontanaiety (and now I think about it, concussion as well.) (It was a very large rock I tripped over) I tore of my clothes and ran into the waves.

And this is where my perfect bathe became unperfect. You see, the water was very cold. And in a burst of manly inspiration, I decided to swim out. Unfortunately, the swell caught me and I found myself dragged under the waves, and as usual, fighting for my life.

An hour later I arrived, half-drowned (yet strangely cleansed) GASPING towards the shore, whereupon I discovered that my clothes had disappeared.

I will admit I sat and cried for a while then, but this was merely because I was exhausted from my battle with the trecherous sea-devil that is Port Royal bay, and not because whoever had stolen my clothes ( I suspect Norrington AND Weatherby, why rest at just one mortal enemy) had made off with my second poet shirt.

The first, as you know was ruined by Jack Sparrow.

NEEDLESS to say, I am a poet-shirtless man.

And, honestly, why else would Elizabeth want me.

Eventually I had no choice but to try and sneak back home. I would have happily stayed out there all night, but gutwrenching poetic lines were bursting from my frostbitten fingers, and despite trying, I couldn't write them in the sand or a rock, and I needed to get back and find myself some parchment.

I HAD parchment with me in my clothes.

There's no justice in this world.

Also my hair makes me look like some kind of Yeti if I am exposed to the elements for too long. On the way over from England eight years ago, one of the mates aboard the ship I was travelling on offered to sell me to a travelling pack, to perform in Port Royal. Apparently I would have made a pretty penny from that deal, especially as I had the legs to forward it.

I don't doubt him on that; do you think I just wear tights on a whim?

Oh no. Will Turner can PLAN his outfits.

Luckily Port Royal seems unusally quiet in the streets tonight, which made for a happy retreat back to Mr Browns. I must admit, I nearly had an argument with a chicken who seemed VERY reluctant to hide my modesty in the presence of an attractive young lady, and who seemed, in all his feathery WIT, to prefer to clamber up my face and, as all animals seem to favour, poo on my naked shoulder.

I also met a rather interesting gentleman who seemed MOST ... well... intrigued, frankly, by my lack of attire, and offered me refuge for the night. I agreed to come to his house (which he assured me was on the next street) to borrow some clothes, and upon following him found myself led to a backstreet alley, and...

Well suggestions were made that I don't find it proper to go into.

The rest of my journey home was not so epic, save for the fact that you'd think the residents of Port Royal would have better things to do with their time than roar at me from their windows. Apparently not.

And the ever-witty Mr Brown thought it would be MOST amusing to bolt the door for my return. Needless to say, its not difficult to attract attention when your naked rump is suspended half in and half out of a Blacksmiths window, because the pot you were using to balance yourself slipped from underneath you.

And when I find whoever it was who SLAPPED most heartily my exposed buttocks, they will pay.

So now I'm just doing some midnight hammering. Wondering about Elizabeth. Wondering if she'll ever see past my dehydrated exterior and find the real Will, the strong, CORAGEOUS, AMAZING Will. The William who can battle a MAELSTROM, practically, in Port Royal and live to tell the tale.

I bet she would if I wore make-up like that SPARROW. But then again, thats hardly becoming of a gentleman is it, to wear so much eye makeup? I mean, I have been known to dabble with the eye enhancers myself but thats -

JESUS CHRIST.

For such an extremely large - and now, extremely FULL - cat, it can bloody LEAP. It was out that window in a flurry of splayed legs and static fur!

Decidedly a more graceful exit than my entrance earlier this evening. The shame of it all.

I hope its alright though, I mean it did wail a fair bit...

Its alright. Its running up the street now.

It IS really quiet here tonight! Where is everyone?! It wouldn't be a normal night in Port Royal if I hadn't looked out of my window to see some gentleman ambling out of a tavern propositioning the wall, the floor, and eventually me.

And although I can't see my life spent with the men who consider me in their evaluations, I do miss their compliments. They are the only people I've met who haven't abused me or my tights within the first few minutes of meeting me.

Well.

I think that just about says it all doesn't it. I don't really see the man who wins Elizabeth's heart as someone who basks in the glow of compliments and propositions by drunken old men.

Especially those who choose to proposition you as an afterthought when the wall and the floor have turned them down.

I lead a rediculous life.