…you look out of the boat window into the wild, wet night and conclude that it must be a Harvest-Mouse moon low on the horizon, or some such… only to then realise that what you’re looking at is a Belisha Beacon on the road alongside the canal. Note to self: wear monocle at all times, no matter that it is 3am and you’ve only got out of bed to feed Mr Stove.
Went for another hyper-mega-uber-stonking cruise a couple of days ago – not coals to Newcastle, but rubbish to Calveley. Those are the nearest bins to where I was previously moored. The civilised moorings at Calveley were rather full of anglers (three, friendly, but spaced out, spatially) so, knowing that the fore-fore-forecast (get yer c-c-c-cloth, Granville) was for rain and breezes, I declined to rest on pins and came back here. Six miles to the wheelie bin. Six very pleasant miles indeed, albethey damp-cold enough to freeze the monkeys off a brass ball.
The Canal Company know something about the water levels, either expecting monsoons or an incontinence from the Llangollen – or perhaps for that bulging, slipping side of Hurleston Reservoir to give way and release a tsunami – and have opened the sluice hereabouts, draining off some of the water. The sluice isn’t at full flow, it looks to be cracked at a quarter or something like.
Appen as reckon as Adderley’s there, moored and waiting (for something).
The Barbridge boater bins are not there and waiting, the Canal Company’s Huge Throbbing Brain thinking to slide the removal of those under some sort of foggy radar.
Adderley is moored up in a style new to me. Usually with El Workboats it’s a couple of yards of hairy blue bailing twine, but this workboat is chained to the mooring ring. Is Adderley especially dangerous, or prone to running away perhaps?
The sluice is producing a vortex in the canal.
So, being so sorely tempted thus, I took advantage and produced another “selfie”.
Here’s me, teetering on the edge of the Watery Wabbit Hole. When you can stand on the edge of the vortex, Grasshopper, falling neither in nor falling out, then ready you shall be to leave the monastery.
We all know how ugly the Watery Wellness Trust Ltd.’s new “half-sunken old tyre” logo is, and how jarring the shade of blue chosen – the signs positively blight any rural scene. Is it so very wrong of me though to wonder why this new “branding” as applied to the workboat Adderley could not at the very least have been lined up with the name-plate?
Another slight discomnobulation yesterday, this being with the new mobile internet service providatrix. When purchasing the required SIM card I naturally, having been trained at my Father’s knee in such matters, gave them a load of old baloney in the matter of personal details. In adult reality a mere service-provider has no need whatsoever to know, for example, my date of birth. Ditto the Watery Wellness Trust Ltd, where I am recorded as having entered this world on 01/01/1908 – the earliest date that their silly system would allow. Well, it transpires that in this “wrap ’em in cotton wool and assume everyone to have the mentality of a backward toddler” world, the new ISP (and all others) defaulted to my being a child and wouldn’t show me “adult” websites – these “adult” websites being political parties, discussion forii (forumsies?) &etc, indeed anything much more than the already wholly juvenile Titter & FarceBook….
No matter, their website said, simply enter your card details, be charged £1 and we’ll accept that you are no longer in nappies (what do they know, eh?).
Reluctantly, I handed over my card details.
Only “credit” cards are acceptabubble “proof” of age in this insane Society of Window-Lickers & Thumb-Suckers that we have created about ourselves in decades past.
I do not have credit cards. I have one debit card.
There then followed an amusing hour on something called “live web-chat” with someone on a night-shift somewhere in the Indian sub-continent, unravelling my mis-information and finally allowing me access to the adult – not “adult” – internet world, such as it is.
As folk oft expostulate on this same adult internet; FFS – which I have always taken to mean “Flying Fish, Surely”.
Sorted, although aforesaid damnable company now, of operational and practical necessity, has a lot more of my details than I give even to the Regimental Medical Orderly at the annual retirees Turn Your Head & Cough Ceremony. Trying to live as un-plugged a life as may be is rather akin to swimming against the tide, ain’t it not?
Grumbles. Shakes angry fist at Mount Olympus and all those upon it, tittering into their teacups and congratulating themselves on arranging such a jolly jape at my expense (both literally and figuratively).
Yonder breezes are forecast to be gusting at a fresh 46mph overnight tonight. I’ve bunged the extra bungees on, Bungditdin. Today looks as though it won’t ever bother to change out of its pyjamas and assume full daylight. Dull, grey, wet and windy. But enough of my brain-gland.
Let’s hope that someone at the Watery Wellness Trust Ltd remembers to come back and close that sluice sometime. 😉
Curry, I think. A damnably hot veggie curry.
After a cold, wet and wild walkies.
Ian H., &Co. Bunging up the English wateryways since 2015.