and the Red Arrows…
…but sadly couldn’t get them both in the same image.
Even sadderer still, there’s no way on this planet that I could get a narrowboat under the railway bridge with the steam train crossing and the Red Arrows flying overhead.
I got on the radio (channel 16) and asked them all to come back, but both train and Red Arrows said something about how they’d love to but get off the airwaves or they’d call the Police.
It’s very hectic on t’canals, you know.
Actually on one canal – the Suez – it’s all stopped. When your 220,000 ton, 437.4453 yards long, 64.52318 yards wide container ship decides to get all straddly-en-canal there’s not much point in tugging at the centre-line.
This is not the view from my port’ole.
We’ve (almost) all been there though. Across a canal, that is, not necessarily the Suez. It’s been about fifty-five years or more since I was on the Suez (so you really can’t blame me for this one). I was in a much, much, much nicer looking ship, too.
The Watery Wellness Trust Ltd have, however, as is their wont, already issued a stoppage notice citing ‘boater vandalism’, ‘Act of Mrs God’ and ‘It wasn’t us, some big boys did it and then ran away’ as the cause of the blockage. Details have been passed to the local team and an update will be provided as soon as their contractors have built a temporary access road across Egypt and nailed up the Elfin O’Saferty signs.
Yestereve’s sunset clouds were quite soothing and soft.
This morning, however, spoke of possible weather abounding…
and tbh tis a touch windy for moving – well over the Hutson Movement Index, anyway. The Met Office reckon it will be so for some days yet. Ho et le hum.
Mr Grebe is back in the area but hasn’t called in for tea yet.
The Swan-Vestas – foul and horrid beasts – cruise up and down on a regular basis, snorting at me and mine.
There’s a noisy little coterie of five or six male ducks in the area, sailing up and down in a huff. I assume – although one ought never to assume, really – that these are the ducks that couldn’t get laid during the duck orgies of the past couple of weeks. In lieu of girlfriends they’ll have to make do this season with ton-up motorbikes, fist fights on the foreshore, and/or one another. If only they realised how it’s almost certainly for the best.
Something that sounded vaguely duck-shaped woke me at 0500hrs this morning, using the Cardinal’s rear tonneau cover as a trampoline. Boing quack, boing quack, boing EEEEK! (as I gave a couple of tiny parp-parps on the boat horn). I thoroughly expected there to be a reactionary pile of duck poop on my black canvas when I went out later, but the trampolinist’s sphincter seems to have held.
Made of stern stuff you know, duck sphincters. They have to be if the wee beasties are going to stay seaworthy. There are laws against twisting the greaser of the stern-gland on a wild duck.
One more steam train image for the day?
Very well, if you insist.
If the steam train keeps to schedule I may dress up as Jenny Agutter tomorrow and wave my red knickers at the driver. Everyone needs a hobby, and we all need to try something new once in a while.
That’s about the it of the news, really.
I must away now and rattle some pots and pans. It will be the remains of the fresh veggies for din-dins. Spuds and carrots, mashed and then run through with the last of the green cabbage – all served up with a dusting of black pepper and a runcibode spoon.
That’s the plan, anyway.
I may even raddle Mr Stove back into life for the evening, that way I’ll have something to point my toes at as I sit and mentally make the necessary calculations to fold space and time.
Talking of which, the clocks here all leap forward an hour this coming Sunday. I shall be jet-lagged for a week, although at least my rinky-dinkoid nineteen-seventies Casio digital watch will be showing the correct time again until the clocks all shuffle backwards in Autumn. There’s a positive side to everything. In 13-amp plugs there’s also an Earth.
Ian H., Dastardly Scourge of The Canal System, Rotter, Bounder, and Cad.