There is a giant circus-like tent hanging over it, ridiculously. See-through plastic windows have been clumsily sewed to the sides. Red graffiti tags adorn the hemline. The ship’s been out there twenty-nine days now, a stone’s throw from the harbour, and officially we need to wait another eleven days. There are no faces staring out at us from the windows, we know we need to burn it on the fortieth day, and we are anxious to. But rules are rules. On the forty-first, the ship will shrug its sheets off, hoist its ropes up, unfurl its cloth and sail away.