I feel that it might happen at any moment.
A quiet stretch of canal, an empty Starbucks coffee cup thrown over-arm from the deep shrubbery, landing a savage blow to the Hutson temple…
A burly Watery Wellness Trust Ltd rozzer with a loaded iPad, secreted behind the door of an Elsan room at a lonely Service Area, a scuffle and an ugly sluice blockage…
The heavy Company Book, held aloft in both hands by a shadowy figure with the brim of their forehead pulled down low; thrown at me from some ancient canal bridge…
…with the section on “putting one foot wrong from now on” underlined in green crayon.
Chapter 2733, Subsection 498a, Paragraph 1621, Line 877 and Footnote 13d of the new Licence Terms & Conditions.
Still, some things must be said and not forgotten, especially in the matter of faceless, bullying corporations (you know the one). As Mother often said to me while lacing up her Doc Martins before heading out to work undercover for the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti; ‘Never forget, never forgive, never surrender.’ As Gary Numan said (to lots of people, not just to me), in Track 7 of the seminal album Savage (Songs from a Broken World); mercy is over-rated.
The National Bargee Travellers Association have been kind enough to publish my account of the Cardinal’s recent hair-pulling, ankle-kicking, latte-spilling silliness with
The Weyland-Yutani Corporation The Watery Wellness Trust Ltd.
If either of my readers would like to cast a beady occular orb over it then please click on the link below:
Thank’ee. I hope that it is useful.
Illuminated transcripts will be available in the fullness of time.
…life continues, at a wild, metropolitan pace.
On a domestique note there are some new links in the menus at the top of each page hereabouts, some leading to Pinterest in case that’s your thing, others to the august bodies of NBTA and NABO.
I’ve added another dozen and a half images to the Cardinal’s FineArt America pages/shop, the better to cater for those with boring walls in need of tartery-uppery, a need for personalised greetings cards upon which to send their village hate-mail, and/or even such as a hankering for jigaws to while away the long, lonely decades before death.
Watch this space and, should I be found one morning stabbed through with a hideous blue plastic sign bearing the half-sunken tyre logo – avenge me.