Things are serious when you not only have wild duck pets but you name them too.
I have named these two Woderwick and Wodger.
What these two over-here, over-paid and over-sexed chaps don’t know is the whereabouts of the local female, the object of their current hormonal evolutionary imperative madness.
I know that she’s in the long grass and weeds of the towpath, just opposite my study window… She crept alongside early this morning, we locked eyes through the glass, and then she stepped, ever so lightly, into the foliage. 😉
Daphne, your secret is safe with me.
There are, it must be said, far worse places in which to hide while trying to escape the clutches of a pandemic. Any town or city, for one such worse.
It is though about to become a tad busier here. The Brains Trust that is the Canal & River Rozzers Ltd have just sent out notification of some six weeks of work to be done by Messrs Railtrack, to the bridge just behind the Cardinal in this photograph.
The work, they say, will involve floating pontoonery and scaffolding and ritual sacrifices of random live-aboard boaters, along with delays to both pedestrian and boat traffic.
The marina and the services are on the other side of that bridge.
Thank you kindly, CaRT.
Most of the moorings are on this side of the bridge. The visitor moorings above the marina are, currently, unto boats as fleas are unto a camel’s crotch. With CaRT you can really feel the love, eh?
I have been moved, moved indeed to amend my Last Will & Testicle to remember you all, to remember you very generously indeed. Should I die during this pandemic I have left funds sufficient to cover the cost of having the entire Canal & River Trust Board of “Directors” buried with me. Buried alive.
Since my perambulations and boat movements are already limited by daytime tow-path joggers, walkers and cyclists to the pre-dawn and soon-after-dawn hours, the default position for these disconveniencing works had ruddy well better be “open for navigation”.
The local geese are coming to terms with my walking past. No longer do they honk and bray and flap and shriek. This is good.
I am become He Who is Without Feathers. Speaker to avian life-forms.
It’s not a job that I would have chosen, but one takes what one can get in these times of tribulation.
The amount of foot and cycle traffic along the towpath is – would be, in different times – quite hilarious. Folk who haven’t previously in their lives walked farther than from sofa to refrigerator to car and back to sofa via the refrigerator are tottering up and down, wheezing gently and sometimes not so gently. Perhaps two dozen in the few minutes that it has taken me to type this.
There are bicycles being pedalled that so, so obviously haven’t seen the light of day since WWII, jogging outfits that most certainly came from the back of the bottom of the wardrobe, twenty-four payments to the catalogue still owing. Some of the walkers are having extreme difficulty with that overly-complicated left-right-left-right rhythm.
They are, for the most part, avoiding physical contact (most, but by no means all), but what none of them are doing is minimising contact with that long, long bridal-train of breathed air that everyone’s towing along, the air with the bouncy-bouncy snottites in it. Those gasping, apoplectic joggers and once-in-a-century cyclists aren’t somehow magically “safe” once their body has departed – needs must the air that they have breathed and wheezed and gasped and farted out to be changed, too.
Right. I’d best get back to final checking and formatting of ‘The Age of Stupid’ before I pass it over to the enpublishicators. Then I promised to wake Daphne at dusk.
Meanwhile, I’ve had a second e-book copy of Narrowboat Winter 2020, Three Named Storms & a Pandemic printed up just in case anyone else wants a copy. 😉
Read it and weep.
No, but seriously.
Chin chin for the moment, chaps.
Keep well, keep on feeding the cat.