Once upon a time, there was an island in the waves called Plug. As islands go, it was really quite a pretty place and the people there - the Plugachs - all agreed that, by and large, other things being equal and taking the rough with the smooth, it was O.K. - if you like that sort of thing, that is.

As is often the way with islands, some sort of tenuous link with the rest of humanity was maintained by a ferry service, - in this case the 'Lame Camel Ferry Co.' - the scheduling of which was steeped in magic and mystery and was determined largely by the somewhat capricious movements of small pieces of green paper. The Plugachs, quite naturally, got very cross about this and several times a year especially when the moon was full - resolved to do something about it, like, for example, holding very cross meetings or writing very cross letters to the local newspaper. Sometimes, nothing changed; sometimes new ferry schedules were introduced, equally unfathomable and inconvenient; sometimes bigger boats would call less often and more quickly, on their way to places that no one wanted to visit and at times when most people were asleep or wanted to have a party.

One day, a particularly wise group of Plugachs conceived of a plan of such stupendous daring and originality that they could only bring themselves to talk about it in the dark and only then after several stiff drinks. And the plan was simply this: why not move Plug to the mainland by towing it with dozens of little boats and great lengths of rope?!

And they couldn't think why not.

When all the other Plugachs learned about the scheme, they couldn't think why not either and so, on a day that was widely - but quite incorrectly - thought to be auspicious, the whole population (with the exception of one old woman whom nobody had bothered to tell) took to their little boats. They spent some time painstakingly securing their craft to various lumpy bits of Plug by long ropes and then rowed for all they were worth towards the mainland. At first nothing much happened but then, with a great sort of basalty KERPLOP, the whole of Plug lurched to one side, rose a little in the water and slowly started to move off after the boats.

All the islanders cheered so wildly that they didn't hear the rather horrid gurgling sound - to begin with, that is. And when they did, it was too late of course, for all the little choppy green waves were being drawn down into an immense open wound left in the ocean floor by the uprooted Plug. It wasn't long before a terrifyingly hungry whirlpool had formed and the swirling currents became so fierce that all the little boats were drawn irresistably to the edge of that ceaselessly sucking hole. Above the rush and roar of the water, the sounds could be heard of the Plugachs bravely singing 'For those in peril on the sea' - before being swallowed forever down into the grey -green depths.

Happily, Plug, being carried by the currents back towards the hole, bobbed above it for a moment and then was pulled down into its former position. It made quite a pleasing sort of basalty KERPLUNK sound. And that was that. There would be the occasional visitor to the island alright but they never stayed long. Too quiet, they said, and one or two of them insisted that, on still nights, you could press one ear to the ground, and hear - absolutely nothing.

God, of course, wondered why the Plugachs had done such a silly thing since the island was quite plainly labelled ‘Plug’ on all the maps – but He didn’t give it any further thought.

Obviously, the moral of the story is that, if you happen to be God, it’s just no good being oblique and depending on subtle fables and allegories; you really have to spell it all out very, very clearly – just to be on the safe side.

What’s that? The old woman left on the island? Well, she wrote several very cross letters to the local newspaper because nobody had thought to stop the delivery of food to the island and then, shortly after, died – from overeating.

In the interests of consistency, she was buried at sea.