Well, there’s another week gone of the meteoric Decline & Fall of Western Civilisation.
I got a bit o’shopping done.
Yep, that’s yonder Cardinal moored up, centre-ish of frame above.
Canals are a little quieter than hitherto, although the skools are all on or about to be on “half term hodilays”, so this may be
ruined changed. Haven’t the festering, toxic little vectors of disease only just gone back after a year off? Hire boats are still charging about, doing the holidays. Of the other boats both moving around and moored there’s a distinctly higher proportion of 24x7x52 stalwarts than previously (a.k.a. weirdos, the emphasis in most cases being on “warts”). It should be noted that I stand out as being a wonderful and balanced human being and exemplar of my species, as do the people I talk to – it’s the others who are all strange.
Oh dear – a hire boat has just cruised past, name of ‘Hermit Thrush’. Most of the boats of that company are named after medical conditions or after the subjects of unfortunate and tasteless veterinarian anecdotes: Glaucous Gull; Septic Toad; Trench Foot Badger, that sort of thing. As with all of the others as they pass, I was sore tempted (another possible name?) to throw a tub of E45 at them to rub into affected areas twice daily.
A bit fell off the canal this week.
I say “fell off” but I suspect that eighteen tonnes of (relatively) high speed holiday steel had something to do with it.
The water level was down by a couple of inches, doubtless due to a novel virus.
The ‘Reduces Water Levels By A Couple Of Inches Virus’, believed by many to have been released from an obscure Chinese laboratory by an obscure counter-intelligence agency known as the C.I.A., an ironically-named official body, working from one of the more obscurantic and otiose old colonies (Rutland).
Given that the water hereabouts comes from Wales, and nothing is allowed to enter or leave Wales at the moment (except, perhaps, Nicola Sturgeon when on inter-Celtic aid missions delivering haggis*) I’m not Surprised. Nor am I any of the other dwarfs, Grotty, Stumpy, Dotty, Dopey, Gropey and Stinkalot, who may sadly no longer meet (legally) all at the same time. Even the fairy tales are being ruined. I suppose that The Famous Five are still alright, so long as they wear masks and wash Hans a lot.
Hans used to work for Hertz van Rental, mixing his paints and stuff.
[* Sturgeon used to be a midwife.]
I’ve lost it again, haven’t I?
Fine, I’ll avoid the Cardinal’s galley for a while (that’s where all of the sharps are).
The pubs and clubs and wotnots of this area of England are, at last glance (it may have changed) all closed unless able to ‘…offer substantial meals to poor peasant school children during the holidays while Rishi Sunak fiddles (with a football player named Rashford MBE)…’
It should be noted that while the car park of the Barbridge Inn may be desserted (do you see what I did there?) the boat park is rammed.
On my early-morning perambulations all that I could hear were the contented snores and bilious digestive rumblings of boaters sleeping off those same substantial meals.
The canal to either side of the pub boat park wasn’t exactly empty, either.
The Cardinal and I are headed north sometime in the next few days. Not far. Mojo and Oomf willing.
Good names for dogs, Mojo and Oomf. If they ever strayed then a chap could wander around public places shouting their names and explaining to policemen that he was in search of his mojo and oomf.
There wasn’t supposed to be a lot of rain today, but Parapluie (the ancient French God of Rain) has just been Le Chuffing Chucking It Down, dans les buckets. Mr Sun has responded with a warming smile, but there’s more rain up in that thar sky. I shall have to step outside and squeegee the solar panels again while they’re wet – the rain is doubtless filthy, and we’re but a trebuchet fling away from a busy road here, so the air is not pristine, being full of particular particulates and of less than particular particulates, all of a generally motorised nation nature. Poop poop.
The wind’s backed off too, but I bet you sixpence to a guinea that if I were to untie the Cardinal’s ropes to steam away it’d be back like a shot. Not going there. I’m not so green as I am cabbage-looking.
No, the outside world can do one for the rest of the day, I’m going to stay indoors and brew coffee and eat curry.
Heaven forfend that I come over all OAP and get those two processes confused.
Confused? You will be, after this week’s episode of SOAP.
I’ve just interrogated the batteries (via some process called “Blue Teeth”, or some such), and as of mid-day we’re some fifty minutes into “float” at 13.94 volts and a physical temperature at the batteries of 15° on the Celsius Scale. So there’s lovely for you, yes indeed, Myfanwy.
You can’t beat a bit o’lead-acid, can you?
Right, I must away and check the “news” to see if Mint Imperials and wooden legs are allowed to be sold or not today, and whether the R Factor, who art in Heaven, really is one (as the more salacious gossip has it). I really daren’t look though – I’ll probably visit double-ewe double-ewe double-ewe gubberment dot con and be presented with some video of Boris explaining that all persons of 5′ 6″ or above who can hop on one leg while whistling tunes from Evita may only use the left-hand side of the High Street while in the presence of two Covids Martial. Um, I mean Covid Marshals. And only then while purchasing Government Bonds or sliced white bread for personal use.
It’s all very silly indeed, but at least the “ramming board” is back in its rightful position opposite the junction.
All swell in the world.
Ian H., &etc.