I wrote a paragraph. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything else I’m writing, and I’ve got no story to attach it to, but it amused me, so I’m sticking it here. :P
In his little cabin, tucked away in the very stern of the orlop, the Victory’s surgeon William Beatty was pouring himself a tot of brandy, in honour of his having got through another week without being court-martialled. In fact, he had only ever been court-martialled once, and that ten years ago, but he habitually sailed so close to the wind in point of plain speaking to senior officers, that every week he saw out without being dismissed the service seemed to him deserving of recognition.