One of my morning perambulations caught up with them – and you thought that perhaps I was joking about the hire boat company and the names… 😉 Nope, not joking. I never joke. Joking leads to weak smiling and smiling makes my face ache.
For clarification, I think that the boat is named after a small and feathered beastie that invaded English shores some short few decades ago, rather than a medically discombobulated isolationist. In the name of total transparency (Parency Lives Matter, trans or otherwise) here are details of the boat from the hire company themselves.
We are most definitely in the tatty, cheap, second-hand and hurriedly-bought-in season where in better times we would have had mists and mellow fruitifulnessnous. Her Majesty’s met office tell me that today is likely to be very much ho and quite a lot of hum, ho hum, but that the three or so days following will include rain, rain, rain, more rain, wind, wind and winds in the forties of the Imperial Miles Per Royal Hour.
Oh, there’s autumnal colour a-plenty about, but it seems this year to have been rather rushed, we have been autumned without due care and attention. Perhaps my mind has been on other things. Pantodemics and the inexorable rise, rise and rise of ignorant, barbaric medievalism (in the form of a certain murderous “religion of peace”). The headlines, when not taking one’s head unexpectedly off one’s shoulders, do rather take one’s mind off the better things of life.
By way of distraction from the politically “correct” gibberings of the Chamberlain-esque appeasement monkeys, there’s a small patch of garden that some green-fingered person tends to, right alongside the Wellness Trust’s services building. Even after all of the wind and nonsense of late there are some tres bon flowery things in there. Here’s one.
Do plants suffer from measles?
They’re very pleasant, whether they have measlies or not.
The world can’t, at heart, be all bad when there are living things in it whose major purpose in life is to populate crappy corners of the world and to shove up delicate little works of art in pastel shades. I like plants almost as much as I love dogs, and both far more than I like people. 🙂
The view to the other side of the services building would be considered equally beautiful – by those aficionados of The Modern Brutalist School of Art.
I’ll just blether on for a sentence about the interesting juxtaposition of bare, stained, and weathered worked woods accented by barbed wire under tension, and leave it at that. Not everyone finds modern art palletable. Um, palatable.
I’ve checked on the growth and enthusiasm of the local greenery and berries, and my Bradshaw’s Folk Lore scale reckons that there’ll be a bit o’winter this winter.
Bradshaw is though, inconclusive in the matter of whether it’ll be a proper winter or a totally naff winter.
I’ll put on my hat with the streamers, tie on the knee-bells and fetch a bit of greenery inside along with the sheep, just in case. Justin Case is always the first sheep in, he’s not fond of the cold. I’d better dig out the Steeleye Span CDs too, and that Mike Oldfield one about his rather being on horseback.
Talking of strange happenings, there has been one amazing incidence of serendipitous victualling of late.
Into my possession has come (an analogue of) one of those tinned steamed puddings that I blethered on about a while ago, the sort that you boil in the tin for six or seven days or something.
I suspect, from the manufacturers involved, that it will need not some little tinkering and encouragement – and perhaps a few more spots – but it’ll be fun to give it a go. Mr Stove can cook it for me when next he’s in roaring blaze mode (which, from the weather forecast, ought to be in the next two or three days). Can I make the nineteen-seventies live again?
Titter ye not, madam – the pudding, while still served in the Parliamentary dining rooms, has been re-named ‘Spotted Richard‘, because the Membrum Virile of our government can’t stop themselves guffawing at the Americanism that is “dick”. Spotted Dick would not have been my first choice; that would have been Treacle Sponge. Who knows though? I may find more of the things if I keep looking.
Have to have something to keep my mind off Global Insanity, and that something may as well be putting on weight ready for hibernation. I’ve taken to scattering cotton wool and torn-up newspapers over my bed. Ought I to be worried? More than is usual, I mean?
Aha – as I type, Messrs Fountains, gardeners to the Wellness Trust Ltd (formerly the Canal & River Trust Ltd), are blitzing the towpath. I needs must then nip outside once they’ve departed, to take the grass and cut hedgerow trimmings off the sides, roof and solar panels. Three gentlemen, two with petrol-powered strimmers, one bouncing along at a spine-tingling rate on one of those mowers that looks like a balloon-tyred prop from a film about Love on Moon Base Three or some such.
They’re all in head to toe high-vis outfits with boots and hard-hats and gloves and face-visors, fit for a walk in outer space.
Not unlike most of the population these trying days.
I’ll let you know what the Dick was like.