Mr God also get his electricity from the sky, but he doesn’t bother with solar panels.
I can’t remember exactly when or even where I took this phomatograph. The church and gravestones are very real, the light-er-ning is fakery of course.
Did anyone else love most things that Hammer Films Ltd turned out? I generally watched them in bed, on a 12″ b/w “portable” television and with headphones.
Treated myself to another splendid cruise-ette yesterday, untying and away very quietly at 05:45hrs, with just a smidge-o da light mist and some low sunshinery. After the queue at Nantwich Services though (see previous posts) I took no liberties with the time of day, being careful to manoeuvre into and tie up as far to one end of the Calveley Services wharf as could be… as I always ought… and another boat did indeed oik up at about 06:30hrs.
Nothing is sacred anymore, not even emptying the Elsan cassettes down the sluice.
Half-past Sparrow-Cough O’Clock and I have to smile and make ruddy small-talk as I snap off my gloves, tear off the plastic apron and spray myself under the arms with biodegradeable Flash-with-Bleach.
I really ought to get some pyjamas, and then I wouldn’t have to sleep in plastic apron and gloves.
The sunshinery was, of course, misleading the witness, Yer Honour, since while the season may finally be turning (from Winter to whatever it is we’re going to have next), the past few days and indeed the week to come look sunny, cloudy, cool, and with precipitation abounding. Thus far the rain has been relatively clean, and I’ve not had to persuade eight tonnes of Saharan sand off the solar panels. If it’s not blowing from that direction then this probably just means that it’s blowing in via Chernobyl instead.
I remember well that when someone in Pripyat kicked over the morning’s bucket of radioactive feed intended for the carbon rods in the barn yours truly wasn’t satsified with just being in England. Oh no, I had to get closer to the fall-out action; I was in Norway. This probably accounts for why my eyes glow in the dark. We digress though.
As well as sharing the Services with SS Happy Wanderer I shared the Bunbury winding hole with a swan and a large floating island of weed*.
The swan was at least active in keeping out of my way, the floating island wanted nothing more than to home in on the Cardinal’s prop and begin an intimate relationship.
The Cardinal and I turned – under the piercing gaze of the cat living on the boat so conveniently moored right on the winding hole approach-next-the-encroaching-reeds – without actually making Swan-&-Weed-Soup.
Space was available – praise be to Zeus et al – on the moorings down by the bridge, so I done bunged us on them. There’s an Internet Tree growing in the field on the offside; splendid.
The towpath – after The Ra-a-ains Down In A-a-a-frica – is mudful, but nothing like the oomska quagmires of our previous visits. So far. Will only be here a couple of days anyway, so if Quag’s Mud Pudding it wants to become then so be it. I soon have other places to meet, people to be.
There’s some electrickeral work to organise, Pizza Night at my favourite marina next week, and – when I can raise the mental oomf – arrangements to be thought out and put in place for blacking the Cardinal’s bum (renewing the protective paint on the hull).
I need a sit down after just thinking about that.
A sit down in front of something soothing.
I’ll be complaining about being too warm soon enough. Ruddy summer.
Moan moan moan, it’s all I ever do. You’d think that I’d been trained in childhood by watching too many Hammer films.
They just don’t make ’em like that these days, sadly.
Ian H., & Cardinal W., neither of us owned by a Chinese shipping corporation.