Guillemots

Human beings do not and cannot live everywhere. I am not talking about the top of Everest, or the innards of a volcano. I mean those tiny outposts of rock in every ocean in the world. The ones covered in hundreds if not thousands or seabirds, who Tippex the rocks with guano, and marinate the air with the stink of dead fish and manky feathers. 

There is one in particular that is no bigger than a modesty priced restaurant, and is three days boat ride from the nearest coast line. The rock are so sharp that no matter where you land they will scratch the paintwork of your boat. 

Mark discovered this when he arrived. He swooshed away some guillemots with his briefcase, breathed in that fishy smell, and remembered this was his dream.

It was more of a display of paperwork than a purchase. His solicitor hadn’t understood his request at first. But when he realised no-one was going to check anyway, he drew up the contract, and charged Mark half a grand.

Mark had the paper in his briefcase, next to the crown. He had it custom made at the jewellers, and the cost was so prohibitive he had to remortgage his house. Not that he cared anymore. 

He positioned himself on one of the less mucky rocks, and spread out his legs like he was straddling the back of the chair. He unclipped the briefcase, pulled out the crown from the protective casing, and using both hands coronated himself.

The waves crashed against the rocks, and the seabirds got braver. One pecked at his leather shoes, another hopped on the tails of his suit. With the cold metal resting on his forehead, Mark achieved his dream. He was king of all that he could see.