Ye gods but the seasons have slipped!
Not so many moans ago I was baking royally in the unaccustomed high eighties of Fahrengezundheit. In Continental numbers that’s the high twenties of Celsius I think. Now we’re barely over fifty Fs or about twelve of the Cs. My nose is cool, Mr Cardigan is working well and I am typing this in fingerless gloves…
Bloody England, one extreme to the other with no rhyme or reason.
I do think that Hooman Beans have changed and are still changing the climate, but I think that the climate is also changing itself, even more so. Some sort of cyclic arrangement of the sort that froze the Thames solid all of those times between 1600 and 1800. Humans and the caprice of Father Nature, together we’re a dangerous combination.
Hmm… combinations. Cotton ones.
Among many other jobs I have sorted out the winter gear today – hats, gloves, scarves, buttock-warmers and wotnots. Doubtless we’ll be baking again in September.
We’re moored on dodgy pins at the moment (no armco) almost at the far distant end of this line.
I can’t light the stove, that would be silly – it’s ruddy August! Maybe I’ll spend a wee dram o’diesel later and fire up the central heating instead? Perhaps I’ll bake bread and put my feet up on the oven door.
It has been unfeasibly dull here today too – it’s not really bothered to get fully daylight at all. The Cardinal’s solar panels have worked wonders, not only running pumps, lights, stereo and things but also catching up with my over-night use last night too. Magic.
The wind has volte-faced. Where yesterday the gusts were tickling our derriere today they are flapping the canvas of the cratch cover on the bow. The rain, though, has continued to fall from on high to everything on low. At least Ingerlund is looking green again, and not that Serengeti parched-corn colour.
It has just occurred to my sloth-like, addled brain – this is a Bank Holiday weekend, isn’t it? That’s why the weather is so ruddy dismal!
Good grief, if slow was actually fast then I’d be the quickest thing on three wheels.
A Bank Holiday.
It’s all good fun anyway, whatever the season.
My insulated little fingers are bashing away at “Project X” at the moment. I have a couple of kind folk test-driving Cheerio, and thanks for the apocalypse for me, and as soon as the dust has settled and the blood’s been mopped up I’ll set the publishing in motion for a few weeks hence.
There has been very little wildlife about in the past few days. Too ruddy cold and wet, methinks. The local moorhen has taken to nibbling at the grass on the towpath alongside the Cardinal, which is very brave indeed. The only ducks that I have seen have all been on a mission, paddling like Mississippi steamboats from one horizon to another either in an effort to keep warm or to find the Sun, or both.
I can hear a boat approaching from our stern, it is about the sixth or seventh to pass today. Not many people about, either. This one has an elderly collie dog sitting on the roof. He has that look about him of “why the hell didn’t I put my doggy longjohns on this morning?” Aha, they’re mooring up just ahead of the boat in front. Presumably the dog’s had enough and wants his tin of Dog-e-Nosh and an evening in front of the telly.
Just to make me out a liar four ducks have just flown past at low altitude. Mind you, they were all wearing pop-socks and crocheted willy-warmers. Probably off to the nearest Travelodge for a night in a hot bath.
Oh, Ms Just-Mooring-Up-Ahead has stepped out and off their boat. She’s wearing shocking pink lycra-thingies on her legs and a yellow hi-vis jacket.
She’s the brightest thing that Cheshire has seen all day.
Note to self: Stop being such a nebby bugger, go put some food on and then get some more writing done. if you work for a couple of hours I’ll let you watch a DVD later.
Damn, I’m good to myself.
You have to be, in winter.
I mean August. In August.
It is August, isn’t it?
Chin-chin, Ian H.