Dearest Mother,

They are treating me surprisingly well, for pirates.

It’s been almost two weeks. I was in my cubicle consuming a kale smoothie and sound editing yet another cooking hack podcast when I blacked out. Eventually, I awoke on this most pungent of seafaring vessels. I found myself surrounded by people equally offensive to the nostrils. Writers – at least that’s what they called themselves.

I’d always pictured scribes as having better personal hygiene which is why I think they are really just fugitives from the East India Trading Company. 

I have been fed hard tack and salt cod at every meal for a fortnight. Some of my teeth are starting to wobble. Is that scurvy or rickets? I can't remember.

They keep telling me that I am a case study but I keep telling them that I am a very animated explainer.

We get along fine most days. My only salvation is that my AV equipment from work is here with me. They made me mount a microphone onto the poop deck and transmit their incomprehensible pirate jargon on the podcast platform (Apple, Pocketcast, Google...) of your choosing.

Please listen or they will keelhaul me.

Signed your beloved son, 

Siegfried.

PS: If you listen to the podcast you might find enough clues to save me or at least be able to generate some fabulous B2B content marketing assets.