The Name Game

Friday August 8th 2025

First day of new life.

What a sentence. Isn’t it beautiful? Have wanted to write that for so long, and now here it is on page one of a brand-new diary. Life. Starts. Here.

New me is:

Peppy. Maybe not peppy, actually—that sounds annoying. But positive. Upbeat. Inclined to wear hair in bouncy ponytail and look on the bright side, but does not require everyone else to do so (see: don’t want to be annoying).

Independent. New me relies on nobody else for validation. She makes her own decisions. She can do it alone.

Bold. I mean, look at me. I’m on a boat, sailing toward a secluded island to start picture-perfect new life running island farm shop!

Am going to be like one of those women on Instagram who live on photogenic homestead and bake their own bread with stunning vista in background.

Except without all the Reddit content dedicated to whether or not I’m in a cult.

Am wondering where the line is between manifestation and kidding yourself. Want to fill diary with positivity but don’t want to, you know, lie.

Truth is, I’m sitting here on a chugging old ferryboat, feeling a bit freaked out.

Remembering former life of good job, nice coffee, steady boyfriend, and now considering future life of seclusion on relatively small rock in the English Channel.

Don’t want to seem spoiled, but argh, will there be a coffee machine on the farm?

Once again unsure if this is wild adventure or mad pre-midlife crisis. Horrible suspicion that you can’t actually know until end of story, i.e., glorious happily-ever-after vs. perishing sad and alone in farmyard.

Spirits lifting again as island approaches.

It’s beautiful! Rugged, shadowy crags jutting from the sea, tangles of wildflowers painting the rocks in greens and pinks…

Looks too pretty to be real, like Sabrina Carpenter.

Am buoyed by new confidence that my future is here on the Isle of Ormer, population 500. Soon to be 501.

Here’s what I know about the Isle of Ormer:

There are no motorized vehicles on the island except tractors. Everyone gets around on horses and bikes, like medieval people. Feel positive about this, particularly given the six points on my license.

The island is three miles by one mile. Tiny! With a real sense of community, according to Google. The perfect place to build a new family. (Getting ahead of myself, as per.)

Most of the land is farmed, and Bramblebay Farm has a shop, aka my new place of employment. Popular with visiting tourists, but a lifeline to the locals, too. Am envisioning crates filled with earthy potatoes, fresh milk in glass bottles and me swanning around with wicker basket under arm.

No streetlights on the island. Great: fits perfectly with new resolution to go to bed at nightfall and rise with the dawn like the lark. Or the blackbird. Whichever bird gets the first worm, that’s going to be me.

Ormer is a Crown Dependency, so kind of part of UK but not?

It was feudal until 2006, which is the year Justin Timberlake released “SexyBack,” i.e.

, about five minutes ago. So: slightly odd.

But they’ve got a democratically elected government now, so that’s all sorted, and I have decided to consider this whole business quirky and cute.

That’s enough fact-based content for now—we’ve reached the harbor!

Arrived in harbor looking significantly more disheveled than I did in Guernsey (sea air very bracing) but quickly realized Ormer is not a place where anyone gives a shit about how your hair looks.

The harbor—a concrete walkway between the rocks, poking out into the sea—was awash with people in work boots and worn jeans.

Above me, the cliffs were dark and imposing, all shadows and sharp edges in the sunshine.

A cargo ship had just cleared off in time for the ferry to dock, and the harbor workers were busy shifting the cargo into battered, ancient-looking tractors to be carted up the hill.

It was immediately apparent that health-and-safety rules are pretty chill here on the Isle of Ormer.

“Watch your head!” someone shouted at me.

I looked up. A rusted shipping container was swooping above me, dangling precariously from a crane-type structure on the harbor. I ducked—maybe screamed—and stumbled back.

“Watch your feet!” someone yelled.

I looked down to find myself mere inches from a precipitous drop into the sea. No railings, no big yellow warning signs, not even a casual traffic cone.

I stared around, slightly breathless. A few middle-aged tourists traipsed off the ferry behind me, dressed in white canvas hats, looking about as wary of the harbor activities as I was.

A burly guy in his thirties barged through the middle of them, head down, a blue cap backward on his head.

His sports bag whacked me in the hip as he powered by, knocking me off-balance.

“Hey!” I yelped.

He turned. The first thing I noticed was his deep scowl, then the gray eyes that met mine for a sharp half second, narrowed against the sun.

“You dropped something,” he said, nodding to the ground. His lip twitched slightly, as though he was trying to hold back a smirk.

“Excuse me?” I pressed a hand to my thundering heart as I scuttled further inland. This was not a comfortable place to lose footing.

The man pointed wordlessly, already walking backward away from me.

Argh. It was this diary, precariously close to the edge—must have slipped out of the top of my bag when he knocked into me. Which meant he could now see the cover, complete with the message Brianna had doodled there while helping me pack yesterday:

Secrets of my tender heart enclosed within

I swore and went to snatch it up. The other side reads:

I’M CHARLIE JONES, MOTHERFUCKER, BOW BEFORE ME

Would it be better if it had fallen that way up? Probably not, there were kids around.

“Thanks,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t have dropped anything if you’d not…”

He didn’t care enough to hang around for the end of this sentence.

“Arsehole,” I muttered.

I watched him go. His neck was a bit sunburned, and his cap said “CJ” on it—my initials (how weird!

I thought). Shame he was clearly a bit of a dickhead, because he was hot, actually.

The rugged scowliness, the earthy-blond scruff of hair beneath the cap, the long-sleeved tee clinging to defined pecs and biceps.

It was giving “I’m a hot mess—try to fix me, why don’t you? ”

Not a shame, actually, shouldn’t have written that.

Sexy rugged men are firmly off new life agenda, even unproblematic ones, and he had “problem” written all over him.

I focused on restoring the diary to the safety of my handbag and looked around the harbor again.

A young woman in baggy skater-style shorts and an “Explore Ormer” T-shirt was waving to the tourists beside me, bouncing on the spot as if she couldn’t wait to get started.

Her black, curly hair was streaked with blue dye, and she had at least six piercings—nose, eyebrows, a few in her lips.

She caught my eye and smiled. It lit her up—she had an earnest golden-retriever energy to her.

“Visiting for the day?” she said.

Probably not reasonable to be miffed by her mistaking me for a tourist, but nonetheless, felt disappointed.

“Actually, I’m moving here,” I said, adjusting my straw hat, and then wondering if the hat was what made me look like a tourist, and promptly removing it. But—hat hair, plus boat hair…I put it back on again. “I’m the new farm shop manager.”

A tractor reversed by me at speed, the man in the driving seat twisted almost 180 degrees to look out of the dirty back window.

“Oh, no way!” the Explore Ormer woman said, beaming at me.

“You’re Charlie! I’m Red. Tour guide, as of six weeks ago—I’m pretty new around here, too, but it already feels like home.

I’ve been helping out at the shop as well, since Rosie and Marly are so busy on the farm for harvest season—everyone’s been desperate for you to arrive.

I saw Rog bringing your luggage up from this morning’s boat, I wondered when you’d get here! Didn’t pack light, did you!”

Actually tried to pack as little as possible—donated bags and bags of stuff before leaving the mainland. Briefly wished I was a “oh, my whole life is in this bag” sort of woman, but some things you just can’t change.

Red pointed through an archway cut into the rock, with the words “Welcome to the Isle of Ormer” in chipped paint above it.

“Head through there to get the rattle up to the Rue, if you don’t fancy walking in the heat.”

I understood very little of this, particularly the rattle part, but was painfully aware of already seeming clueless, so just nodded and hoped all would become clear once through the archway.

This was not the case. Ahead of me was a steep, dusty road, a random collection of seemingly abandoned tractors and a trailer that read “Rog’s Carting and Gardening and Waste Disposal! Call this number! I do all sorts!!”

Hovered for a while, listening to the waves, the seagulls, the chu-chu-chug of the old tractor engines.

There were a few people about, all looking busy, all ignoring me.

No sign of rude CJ cap guy. Was more disappointed about that than I should have been.

Eventually Red and the plodding gang of tourists appeared behind me.

“Oh, still here!” she said cheerfully. “Rog!”

Rog popped out of one of the abandoned-looking tractors like a cartoon character appearing from inside a flowerpot.

He was wiry and sun beaten, and when he smiled, he flashed several gold teeth.

He wasn’t a big man, but I felt quite sure that Rog would beat almost anyone in a fight, like a scrawny alley cat.

“Fifty pence each for the rattle,” he said, stretching out a palm.