I have, of late, turned the quilt up to “two bars”. Damned tempted on occasion to bung the chimney back onto Mr Stove and to light the fire. Might have done, too, had we not between these harbingers of Autumn and Winter had spells of damnably hot and humid. I blame the Gubbermunt; they’re obviously buying in second-hand weather from a fly-by-night second-hand weather dealer with bunting all over the forecourt.
Each day the Met Office posts up juicy warnings of monsoon lashings, thunder and lightning – and each day those items of “at least it would be interesting” weather are quietly removed, leaving only the eight-eighths cloud cover, the coolth, silly now-you-feel-it now-you-don’t winds and dismal, dismal but otherwise quite ordinary rain.
Aside from this it’s all really most splendid indeed. 😉
While it has been, mercifully, quieter than the Llangollen nonsense, there are still silly, silly numbers of boats rushing about, all desperate to holiday, holiday, holiday at maximum intensity (and speed). The Cardinal has had a couple of close shaves here on these moorings. Why is it that boats always choose to meet other boats right alongside me, and to pass there instead of in the empty, moored-boat-free miles fore and aft? It is a choice; a simple adjustment to velocity would remove the problem and allow them to pass one another sans moored boats. Why also, and more importantly, do those on the tiller always, always, always favour hitting (innocent party) moored boats rather than the oncoming idiots who aren’t giving them enough room (especially in these gusts)?
The human world continues to become more actively, eagerly insane every day. A while ago I reduced my frequency of “checking the news” (such as is possible these days, between the efforts of Her Majesty’s Government’s Army’s ‘The 77th Brigade’ propaganda unit, and the total lack of effort – and lack of spine and moral substance – from the winnets that now make up ‘The Fourth Estate’). I am now reducing my interest in the world’s utter nonsense from once every other day to once in three days. Life is really much more cheerful if you don’t willingly absorb the patently obvious bullsh
There is a heron stalking these parts, and he expresses a similar level of disdain but in his case a disdain for the presence of humans and boats. He stalks the extra-shallow shallows of the bank opposite the Cardinal.
While I am squeamish about their diet of ducklings and etc., I do like heronii. Heronum? Whatever the plural of ‘heron’ may be. They look very prehistoric, and that’s quite appropriate considering the fresh lows of human society. They add a touch of ‘The Land That Time Forgot’ to England, a land that time picked up, examined, snorted at and then put back on the shelf. The English language has been reduced almost to a glottal ‘ug’ and trackie bottoms and logo-splattered MAN (is it ‘City’ or ‘United’? I forget which is good and which is unforgiveable) shirts are the new animal-skins.
The view, as ever, is not all wildlife and roses. There are manifold Watery Wellness Trust Ltd workboats scattered all over what that venerable (!) institution itself terms “visitor moorings”. All tied up very loosely with blue string. All far, far over-staying the The Watery Wellness Trust Ltd.’s own time restrictions.
The Watery Wellness Trust Ltd is very much a ‘do as we say and not as we do’ outfit. Much like the English government, although if anything, I hold politicians in slightly higher regard than C&RT Corporate. At least the politicians make no bones about their self-serving corruption and civic incompetence. Politicians are also more competent at being incompetent.
I am where I am (and I yam what I yam) for the weekend. The ‘The Weather’ is supposed to improve marginally next week. We’re still pointing south, we may go farther, we may not. I am not in the least bit convinced that I know one way or the other. When the day dawns I shall flip the usual florin and call heads or tails.
I miss florins. Also thruppenny bits, sixpences and ten-bob notes – all of the items of currency in the days before all vestiges of character were removed from the system. The half-crown, now there was a proper coin. A young chap was rich with a half-crown in his pocket. For four-hundred years in England we used half-crowns, and then some dismal little sh
it in Whitehall decided that they were too interesting, and we should all move to the p.
Pounds and pees. The pees will be withdrawn soon, and the pound will become the smallest unit of currency. Anyone here remember the ½p? That didn’t last long, did it.
£ /- d replaced by “p”.
Seriously, they are taking the p, and if you don’t know that by now then you never will.
Moan moan moan, it’s all that I ever do.
A chap must have a hobby.
I cobbled up a curry yesterday. Its remains are waiting for me to finish them off today.
I wonder how wet I’d get if I did go outside and bung the chimney on Mr Stove?
An anti-drear log or two might dispel a little of this Autumn in August.
No, no – don’t do it, Hutson. Wait until September at the earliest.
Chin-chin for the mo, Muskies.
Ian H., and nb Cardinal W.,
Scourges of the Canal System.