Many moons ago – a year, ten years, who can say? – one of the (one-of-one possibilities) local businesses damaged the bridge over the canal at Barbridge. This meant, apparently, that the lorry that used to empty the boater’s rubbish point could no longer obtain access (due to the weight limit imposed after the damage). Well, good gnus, when Bro and I cruised past in the Aston Minor the other day there were billions of hi-vis workmen working on the bridge, repairing it and loving it and polishing the centre-line cat’s eyes.
So we’ll be having those rubbish facilities back very soon, won’t we, Canal & River Trust.
You’ve seen the state that the “nearest alternative” facilities got into (two and three miles away, Calveley and Nantwich) haven’t you during Barbridge’s absence, so there’ll be no argument, will there.
[Raises an eyebrow by one half smidge, acknowledging that pork has some surprisingly aerodynamic properties when placed near canal infrastructure and in the presence of Corporate Policy.]
A live monster appeared at the lock at Cholmondeston. Having made its own way down the canal – probably after being torn off the bank at the winding hole – it was then pushed into the lock by a holiday boat. There then followed a demonstration of true rocket science, when aforesaid boat got stuck half-way into the lock…
Much “two-sixing” was required to heave the soggy beast out onto the side of the lock where it could do no further jammery stickery.
Now removed it looks akin to something from an early esipode of Dr Who, dangling its green tentacle noses into the lock.
Why is it that I am never carrying a pair of boggly plastic eyes, or even deeley boppers, to adorn things such as this when left around?
The dog’s tail is blurred in this, the lead photo, because it was wagging so furiously. I don’t know if Fido was desperately trying to make friends with the Blob or was terrified of it and trying to appease it.
A spot of a queue formed while several worthy locals and one or two of the less fairy-like holiday-makers got the thing out of the water and under some control. It fell to Phil to bludgeon the thing to death, lest any small child or domestic or farmyard animal be eaten.
When full the water level in this lock is roughly to the bottom edge of where you see the darker brickwork, which is wot is why it was a bit of a b’ger to lift out, there also being nothing seriously to gain a grip on. Weeds and mud, slippery they are, little one.
The bottle? Well I shall probably begin to rattle (even more than is usual) but I was chattering to Boris and Trumpington the other day over tea, global policy, my old Indian Army revolver and this quarter’s suitcase full of Bearer Bonds, and they both recommended that I combat my usual winter (tautological?) Seasonal Affective Disgruntlement with a spot of Vimatin D, Vatamin B12, Zinc and Iron. My god but these things are not cheap these days, are they?
Still, if they prevent me from strangling just one more politician this winter, it will have been worth it. Just.
The D and B12 are tiny, the iron is small, but the Zinc tablets look like something one ought to lubricate heavily before inserting into an ailing horse’s rear-end.
I might have taken NHS advice in the matter but we no longer have a generally accessible NHS, do we?
Perhaps I’ll just go back to strangling people.
It worked for me in London’s Whitehall district in the late Victorian era, I can’t see why it wouldn’t work again.
Old Smokey still occasionally receives hateful stares from Regretable Thunberg, but we’re fast entering the season when he’ll be lit, turned to “full on” and left alone. None of this now you need it now you don’t nonsense.
The wildebeest will complete their migration across the Cheshire plains, the penguins will return to their caves for hibernation until sprung, and Blue Peter television presenters the world over will hug pet orang-utans one last time before putting them into barrels of preserving rum.
See? My grasp of reality is improving all the time, and I’ve only had one day’s worth of pills.
I shall sleep the sleep of the innocent tonight.
No, seriously, my Royal Pardon came through.
Ian H., and Cardinal W., of the High Seas.