A Portrait of the Artist as a Yank Man

If you thought I was stretching the truth on Crazy Yank or any other part of my earlier ‘Ahoy Deck Season…’ tale, you would be wrong. To prove this, I have decided to paste the edited version of the ‘Ahoy Deck Season…’ post I recently wrote as edited by Crazy Yank himself. I e-mailed him the post to make sure he was OK about me writing this blog. Thankfully, he (and everyone else) was – bar a few of the changes he made below, of course…

Ahoy deck season . . . .

‘If you come on my deck, those Mickey Mouse socks will have to go!! You will have to be naked,’ are among the first words Crazy Yank say to me when I go upstairs today.

I live in the basement. In a room that was a garage before it became a converted cinema before it became a bedroom. It’s a great space even though it has no windows and I’m showing signs of rickets. This afternoon, I could see the sun shining through the glass panel above the front door so I went back into my room and put on a mini denim skirt, a tankini top, cardigan and Mickey Mouse socks.

‘Everything down to there is sexy until you get to those Mickey Mouse socks!! ’ hip Crazy Yank begins.

I tell him I don’t care because my feet are cold and no-one’s going to see but I know I will have to negotiate to gain access to the deck this season.

‘It’s my sanctuary. I don’t let the kids go up there… Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to go up to the deck,’ I say, clutching my socks.

He follows me up the first stair case and then the next: a private stair case that leads to the master bedroom with en-suite bathroom, MTV Cribs-style walk-in wardrobe and the deck. We step outside among the Buddha heads and plant pots. Two loungers are next to each other. One is barely in the sun and the other is entirely in the shade.

‘It’s too early for the sun,’ he says.

‘Who’s going to sit there?’ I ask, pointing to the sun-lit lounger.

‘Me,’ he says, lying down, grinning.

‘OK baby,‘ I say as I untie my little nothin’ and let it fall to the deck.

I go down the two flights of stairs and put my socks back on. My friend rings to say she’s five minutes away in the car. She arrives and we set up camp in the back garden. Then Crazy Yank appears.

‘I’m renaming the cat Govinder. I’m in my transcendent zone,’ he says balancing on one leg as demon cat rushes into the house. “Govinder, Govinder, come on. Come here,“ he says, wandering back inside.

‘That’s groovy, lover,’ I say.

I think the blog needs to be a tad more flattering to Crazy Yank.

He’s a cool guy whose springtime has hit him somewhere between his Dharma and south of his navel.

So what if he wants to keep his dojo a sanctuary ?

He deserves it and it’s all he has to call his own.

. . . . Hey, you think chicks are going to read this blog ?

. . . . . . OK, that was a little sad.

Take another look at Crazy Yank

but this time look a little deeper.