Not a yottie

"The habit doesn't make the nun"

Are we defined by our labels or the things that we do? Are we defined by what people call us, or the way that we dress?

What about social grouping or local accent, musical interest or how much money we've spent?

A yachtie, a biker, a cyclist,  a daughter/son of, a northerner,  a southerner,  an Essex girl/boy, horsey, a mum/dad, an artist, musician,  veteran, immigrant, ex-pat, surfer, debutante, academic, homeless to name a few. 

We're quick to label and even quicker to judge.
But what if we're none of these but all of the above?

L-R: Lynn Goodhead, having sailed most of the way around the world she is an enigmatic braveheart,  adventurer and lively lady.
Sir Mad-Fish and his lady Bob (see other picture for Bob) have sailed across the Atlantic and back, with young family, not afraid to face a squall in his birthday suit apparently.
Captain FlashHeart of the vessel Boogie Nights, boat-whore will sail anything, anytime. Woof.

Not a Yottie amongst them.  

Let us introduce old Captain FlashHeart herself, a 3rd person monologue of bullshittery.

Cheers, here's to good health.

The rhymes are there purely by accident (and fuckwittery). 

You see she was born in Chesterfield, Derbyshire, that place in the North of great renown, 

between Yorkshire pudding land further up 'n' Robin Hood land further down.

They call it peak district, bleak district or OS Landranger one one nine

There's plenty of hills, quite a bit of sky, 

look at map though, there int a single straight line. 

She started off young, 'cause that's way of things, when you're born.

Grew up a bit, partly in age but mostly in height.

Showed an interest in tree houses, digging moats, running 'cross fields at night. 

Home for her tea, which is a meal not a drink. 

That's because she's a Derbyshire Lass, 

Those northern lassies, not afraid of muck, of cold, or of brass. 

Tried some girl guiding, but after getting labelled as Strife, realised she wa' better suited to military life.

Joined air cadets 'n learned to shoot, flew aerobatic planes, learned 'bout engines to boot.
Teks afterer dad, n'er grandad thid say. 

She's the daughter of an engineer, di'n't anyone mention? An Engineers Daughter all t' way. 

"She's a Marksman our lass, a ruddy marksman ay, who'd a thought?"
Though she's still a Northerner at the end of the day. 

She's got an eye she has for detail, fair loves her cross-hairs and false horizons.

The Chipmunk has a De Haviland four piston inverted engine in case you needed enlightening. 

For a pacifist she's quite a talent, for shooting stuff, 

laid down and aiming for tin hat. 

So she picked up' camera and started shooting things wi' that.

Our lass is a snapper, a Photographer, a pap. 

Throughout all of this time though, since she grew big after being small, 

she'd been boating, and floating and dinghying everywhe'r

 as a young Northern Marksman Photographer Daughter of an Engineer.

Grew up some more, less in height but in width, 

The labels grew longer as' picked up lifes lessons and gifts, 

One week a Musician 'cause our lass knows' to read dots, play French horn and a tiny bit 'a Latin

the next an Artist 'cause she knows' to paint splots, in a surrealistic pattern.

Influenced by Dali, Bob Marley, Bowie and that Bob Clarke

But all the while she's a snapper, a pap and a Member of the Press

how many more labels does she need as an address?

On they keep coming, as she becomes a velodrome racer, 

a track coach and England's first lady motorpacer. 

She's a cyclist, with a camera, a biker too. 

Ah yes, didn't she tell you?

There's that flaming great beast, with engine and two wheels 

like 'er demon released, all you'd see was' back of 'er Alpinestar heels

wazzing about everywhere, making ruddy gret sound

our Northern Engineers Daughter, Biker Chick Press Hound

But what about that then, when she took back to sailing and boating and dappy adventure?

Single handed, double handed and sometimes the odd non sailing guest.

She'd rock up to a marina alone, the'd look at her like she's sporting wonder woman vest

and pants on outside of 'er salopette.

Yet another enquiry amidst the Royal Blueflaggins of the Baybar drinkin Yacht club, not sure if he was put up to it or if he was the loser of a bet, approached our lass cautiously, he'd never met her yet. 

Is she a Yachtie? enquired the received pronunciation, a veteran of the seas. 

"No my good fellow, I'm not a yottie, I'm just me, as me as can be if you please."

----

L-R Sir Mad-Fish, FlashHeart, Bob of Mad-Fish and Lynn Goodhead
quite a lot of water has passed beneath the keels of this lot. 

This was written in response to two blog posts two people who love the same thing but contradicting each other:
Don't call me horsey
By Abigail Butcher
Call me Horsey
By Sophie Callahan