Got up this morning at my usual Sparrowfart O’Clock, up and down the (inside of) the boat a few times doing the routine jobs from tending to Mr Stove to making the bed. Checked for there being no-one nearby or on the horizon, and then staggered outside for to check the outside of the Cardinal, that no birds had emptied their bowels on my solar panels, no duck had set up home on the stern button, the ropes were all looking happy – and to get some air and some early-morning low sunshine (and some Ditamin V).
Also got a sort of tragic, happy-sad laugh. The sort of laugh that a chap doesn’t really need, if truth be told. There was a slice of cucumber floating along. It seemed to my brain-gland that perhaps someone had flung the remnants of the last Pimm’s of Civilisation into the canal. The glass will have sunk to the bottom of course, but this rather sad, solo slice of cucumber was tick-tocking its way to oblivion.
As I said, it wasn’t a happy laugh.
The happy laugh came yesterday as I was preparing some food – two ducks decided that right under my nose just outside the galley window would be the best place for a protracted and enthusiastic shag.
My goodness me, but aren’t ducks vocal wee beasties when in the throes of connubial bliss.
Yesterday eve the Prime Minister ordered the entire country to stay at home. Three hours later, Mr Parry, the (in)glorious “leader” of the Canal & River Trust, had a minion issue an email finally suspending their enforcement 1995 Waterways Act’s requirement to move move move each and every fourteen days minimum, but also, oddly, very reasonably asking that boaters still out and about – oh, so now he needs we horrid liveaboards, eh? – to “maintain a minimum of navigation so that service areas remain accessible” (as in don’t silt up over the weeks).
It only took the Prime Minister’s forceful toe up Parry’s weaselly arse to get him to see just a smidgen of sense.
There was a mad flurry of boats moving yesterday. How many, I wonder, are effectively stranded somewhere not where they would have chosen to be because they weren’t cantankerous and bull-headed enough to stick to their guns and get to and stay where they wanted before the (rightful) imposition of no leisure boating &etc?
The photograph above was taken this morning. I am walking no farther than half-way towards the boats moored fore and aft, it wouldn’t be fair on them to go closer unnecessarily. When the time comes that I need services I’ll either move the Cardinal and/or then I’ll walk past – when it’s essential to, and not before.
The lack of walkery-aboutery is going to drive me insane, but it can’t be helped, and I doubt that my insanity will really be noticed.
Hecky-heck, even the lack of cruisery-aboutery is already getting on my wick!
So far today – but it is still early – so good. Nothing like yesterday’s “Mother’s Day” slash “quick move before Martial Law pertains” shenanagins. Examples below.
Nothing, of course, like the Hell that is London and other cities and large towns, but then, well… that’s the whole bloody point, isn’t it? This isn’t London, and we could, if we gave a shitski, behave better than they.
They may be family groups and couples, but I’m not and the guy on the boat pictured is not. Nor are the folk on the boats moored behind in any way related to these people who are sharing their air with us because, canals, yeah? Deserted open space, innit. This is what the weasel Parry was actively encouraging right up until 20:29hrs yesterday evening. Screw me, it’s wellness-by-water for the public. Now though he’s anxious that we live-aboard boaters stop the service areas and cut in general from silting up!
No, I would not be that unkind to the fleas of a thousand camels.
Anyway. I (still) have (some) spuds and cabbage and onion and greens, so today’s meal-ette will be a b’gered about version of Colcannon mit der black pepper und der yummen yum. Good, solid, apocalyptic food. 😉
No Pimm’s though.
Just Corona brand beer.
Chin-chin for the moment, chaps, do please all stay safe and keep on keeping on. Indoors.
In especially so my London-living nephew and his family. Tim, seriously – run for the hills if you can.