Meet Dame Twinkles Toothpick III (certNatSci)
Known also as Twinkie, Lilly Crabtree, or Spud Wilson depending on the day, Dame Twinkles Toothpick III is co-founder, Project Purser, and principal slush fund coordinator for HamstersAHOY!. A firm grounding in finance, boots, and unyielding frills ensures no one crosses her when closets are involved.
A Little About Twinkie
♦ Experienced finance professional with creative accounting prowess
♦ RYA Day Skipper and certified Natural Scientist
♦ Internationally qualified beautician with multilingual skills
Twinkie’s Role in the Project
Twinkie ensures that the team has the resources needed to complete the conversion. She navigates finance, logistics, and unexpected demands from Port authorities with flair. When she’s not managing the books, she’s overseeing wardrobe standards on board.
Next in the Series
Meet the marketing mastermind and fleeting dockyard welding legend. Next: Prudence Fishwater →
Robin Hood’s Bay is not arranged like a place that expects visitors.
It behaves more like a conversation between cliffs and sea that occasionally allows people to interrupt.
We arrived at the top of the village in late afternoon, where the road stops pretending it can continue any further and simply gives up into a steep descent of narrow streets and uneven stone steps.
Morecambe Bay does not look like it is waiting for anything.
That is the first mistake people make.
We crossed near Arnside when the tide was already far out, the mudflats stretching so wide they seemed to have forgotten where water belonged.
Brighton is never quiet, but the pier underneath it tries very hard.
Most people only see the top: noise, lights, movement, laughter that doesn’t always belong to anyone in particular.
But beneath it, there is structure. Old wood. Salt-darkened beams. Spaces where the sea presses upward as if trying to remember what land feels like.
Pedro had been watching the Eastern Solent for several minutes before he spoke.
This was unusual.
Normally, he spoke first and observed later.
“There is,” he said quietly, “a concentration of importance.”
The boat cut steadily through bright open water.
The sea was calm. The sky was almost suspiciously well-behaved.
Pedro stood rigid on deck.
Alarmingly still.
Deeply focused.
The sea was calm around the Isle of Wight.
Suspiciously calm.
Captain Pedro stood on deck, perfectly still, his captain’s hat aligned with great precision. In his tiny paws, he held a timepiece, which he consulted with the seriousness of someone who both understood it completely and not at all.
Pedro knew something was wrong.
It began with a smell.
Not just any smell—this was a strategic smell. A layered, complex aroma of sandwiches, crisps, and something faintly buttery that suggested ambition. Pedro halted mid-stride and sat perched upon a Caithness rock, his captain’s hat angled for maximum command.
