(It's "Talk like a Pirate day". Since I have no-one to talk to, other than the ancient scribblings of long-dead Welshmen, and those are hardly animate, I'll type like a pirate instead.)

Zo this weekend I be landlocked, yearr, laying aloft in me house doin' naught but lying in me hammock and dreamin' o' far-off isles, garr. But this 'ere electricitee's gone spanker through the deadeye, ye catch me, and we be payin', so the carpenter's mate be tellin' me, too damn much for our electricitee. Edward Teach's burning whiskers! bellow I, that be downright French of 'em; if ye forgive an' me talkin' like some jack puddin' for a few grains o'the sandglass, we be usin' 44 units from dawn til dusk and that be ev'ry day, b' Davey Jones, and tha' be right false, garr. Zo we be hopin' that the electrician's mate be comin' round this week an' to sort it out, ye dogs.

An' in other news, garr, I be lookin' for a new cabin nearer the Admiral's quarters at me Universitee, b'the mizzen-rings, zo I don't an' 'ave to be takin' the jolly-boat fancy-jack omnibus to and fro at the forenoon and second dog watch. Avast, this be scrapin' at the bottom of me doubloon kitty, but it be worth it a' no mistake, 'earty messmates. I'll be signalling next bells to be checkin' what digs they 'as in store for a poor seahound like I, an' avast, by the swell o' Cape Dreadful.

Now, dammye, I 'ave ballads to be gettin' to. Then some smugglin', and some pillagin'. Garr.