Humorous Protagonist A: ‘I’m not going to answer the door in my longjohns.’
Humorous Protagonist B: ‘I didn’t know that there was a door in your longjohns.’
The Orchestra Pit: Ba-dum-tish.
Audience: Guffaw guffaw guffaw [and continue until your t*ts drop off and/or the Stage Manager indicates otherwise by holding up a board asking for ‘QUIET’.]
My goodness me but it’s been a long year, Mrs Worthington, and I did advise you not to put your daughter on the stage.
Ice on the solar panels this morning. Dullth that remained unrelenting until it relented, sort of, early-afternoon, and morphed into slightly-less-dullth. There’s wind again now, huffing and puffing and poking through the ventilation and whistling tunelessly.
The sittyation inside my head’s not dissimilar. I’ve been mentally inclement since about April.
Ovaltine helps, as does sitting in the Lada position breathing in through my ears and out through my the Lada position is similar to the Lotus Position but the build quality’s just not there, really. Om mani padme Soviet Bloc automotive ho hum.
The Moon continues to Ruby Wax and John Wayne but it’s not even gibbous at the moment.
Odd to think that somewhere up there is a lonely little Chinese robot with a bucket and spade, collecting samples and building sand-pagodas. If I had any advice to offer to a little Chinese robot, and I do, then it would be to reach over your shoulder with the tin-snips, clip off your antenna array and settle down in splendid isolation. Forget all about coming back, you don’t want to come back to Earth. If you get wanderlust then pop around to the dark side. Forget about planet Earth, it’s done for. Save yourself, Little Confucius!
Oh, the sky’s still quite nice here sometimes, I grant you that…
…but the fauna has gone quite insane.
Wibble moo fribble de-clomp.
The only things that talk any sort of sense these days are the trees.
All except for the one in the lead photograph, the Hammer House of Horror Tree, waving his arms over the Temple of Sacrifices, just a frosty lob away from the Soggy Pit of Old Bones.
I bet there’s been many a young virginal local in diaphanous nightwear woken up on that plinth to find a white-hooded red squirrel stood overhead, dagger poised, and a flock of sheep in a trance all chanting the lyrics to Black Sabbath’s ‘We’re all going on a Summer Holiday’ – backwards. Aaab aaab aaab a-ab-ab suuuuummmerrrr holidayyyyyy…
Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee eat your hearts out.
There is increasing Seasonal Sog upon the towpaths.
Sometimes there’s nothing to be done but to dance the dance of the cartoon character on ice, and hope to keep up with the beat. Were I a younger man (a couple of hundred years younger at least) I’d have taken a run-up at this patch, assumed my best surfer stance and scooted right through it. These days though I stagger through in the manner of someone who has only hired their body for the week and doesn’t really know how to drive it.
Other portions of the towpathingery are quite pleasant though, in especially by comparison. This stretch is opposite the long-term ‘Slow Down Moorings’.
‘Slow Down Moorings’ is by far and away the most popular name for stretches of moorings, and there are signs everywhere to prove it, usually at the start and end of every stretch of moorings.
The next most popular name for moorings seems to be “Dead Slow”, which brings us nicely back to the Horror Tree and the Sacrificial Slab in the local horses’ second-best grazing field.
Folk aren’t very imaginative now. Once upon a time moorings would probably have been called ‘Woodbine Moorings’ or ‘Rose Villa Moorings’ or ‘Boaty McBoatFace Moorings’. I suppose that it saved the Canal Rozzers Ltd a few quid, calling them all by the same name and having loads of identical signs made up.
Still, I digress. One perambulates where one can these days, while one (still) can. Life is soggy in whatever direction one strikes out. Best not thought about, eh?
Time for a swift cocoa substitute methinks, before bed. Perhaps two. Must remember to stoke up Mr Stove, too, otherwise I’ll like as not wake up with both eyeballs frozen solid, and you do not need to see my (involuntary) Marty Feldman impression – and nor do I. Tis bad enough meeting myself in the mirror in the mornings as it is.
- Bri-Nylon deckchair-stripe nightshirt – ✓
- Flask of fortified Horlicks – ✓
- ½ a candle in a saucer, in case I wake in the night – ✓
- 2 matches, in case the first one won’t strike, or something – ✓
- Teddybear – ✓
Right, chin-chin then for the mo, Muskies.
Keep your fingers crossed for a spot of solar sunshine tomorrow – I need the Witamin D and the Cardinal’s batteries would like the ergs, thank you very much.
Gossip and scandal when I have any.