I was working for a publishing house, the headquarters of which were on an island not unlike the Famous Five’s Kirrin Island.  My bosses were a commune of penguins who wanted to build a ‘more penguiny future’ and I was delighted to be part of their vision.

Every morning I rowed to Penguin Island in a wooden boat with a tartan blanket over my knees.  On my first day of work, I tried very hard to locate an out of print book about an obscure Liverpool footballer of the 1950s for a retired military chap.  Although unable to locate a copy in our archive, I recommended the gentleman try the local public library and I was praised for my creative problem solving. 

All was going well until one day, as I arrived at the island, I found a dead penguin in my boat. It was perfectly obvious that I had accidentally murdered the penguin by repeatedly hitting him over the head with my oars.  Although this was an accident, caused by my rowing style, I had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.