The Future Isn’t What It Used To be

Neither is the interwebnetting around here. I’ve mooched up to a few spots down in Windy Alley in search of signal but this whole couple of miles is as weak as a politician’s promise. The L.E.D. backlit HD colour display on the lithium-powered portabled MiFi unit calls it ‘Two bars of 4G’ but I lived through every moment of dial-up with cradle modems, and this ‘ere is not quite dial-up velocities. There are chaps working on the local railway line, Otensibly ossenfeffer ossenfuffer clearing overgrowth on the embankment, but I do wonder if perhaps they’ve knocked down one of Great Western Railways Railtrack HS125 London & North-Western Railways Avanti British Railways Virgin Express InterCity Pendolino Central Trains Silverlink’s MiFi repeater posts during their shrubbistic labours.

I’ve done did many fine things while hereabouts. Laundry for one. Two hours slaving over a hot twin-tub followed by a day and a half wrestling with an over-sexed clothes horse hidden as best may be under the sides of the rear deck.

So there’s lovely for you, yes indeed.

In our searches for fizzing electronic æthers we’ve watered…

We’ve taken on diesel and we’ve gazundered…

…and we’ve thrown Paul the Pizza Man off his mooring, with violent threats of Air Hair Lair and G’Day…

Moving at first light to the water point was especially fun, since a boat moored three or four ahead noticed our brief preparations and promptly went into a cartoon-esque blue funk, desperate to un-moor before me and to oik themselves to the lock in first place, lest they be delayed ten minutes… whereupon I promptly pulled up at the tap anyway, expressing zero interest in their sweaty rushings.

Filling up the main water tank and then working down the lock took a good half an Earth hour less than antici….

….pated, which is wot is why I endeavoured to clamber onto the chandlery wharf far earlier than intended.

Twillsoon be time to consider being somewhere [else] for the pagan Dumping Of The Rubbish Ceremony, and to meet Man With A Van for Comestibles. Not yet, but soon.

[Quick aside while I laugh slightly insanely at “Hoomans” – yet another chap walking his dogs, poop-scooped ostentatiously twice in my view – doubtless only since he knew he was near occupied boats – returns from his walk with ne’ery a poo-bag on his person, and I know for an absolute fact that upon his walk there is neither dog-poop bin nor ordinary rubbish bin. So those’ll be in the ditch, lobbed down the canal culvert or festooned in the overgrowth of the railway bridge embankment then. In fifty-thousand years archaeologists will be able to trace out the line of the railway and the canal simply by following the layer of undecomposed plastic poop-bags (and other rubbish). Lovely. Love dogs; can’t really be doing with people-in-general. In truth, can’t be doing with people-of-any-rank, really.]

There was this past week a meeting of Chaps Who Chomp, and most splendid it was too. The food at the Barbridge Inn (has improved of late to be) most pleasing indeed.

It’s going to be a nerve-wracking day today in some ways. The energetic breeze is blowing off the towpath, which is wot doth mean that when those lovely hired boats enter the Cardinal’s lee they do so without having thought to correct for the sudden lack of sideways gustations, and they are, thus far, steering right towards us. Mr Biggenthwacker is laid out ready on his oil-cloth, just in case any discussions of minor navigational nuance are required.

All of the boats so far observed appearing through the railway bridge have found themselves suddenly and seriously discomnobulated vis-à-vis vector. A chuffing Anglo-Welsh has only just narrowly avoided us as I type…

Ho et le hum.

Now, where did I put my tranquilisers?

And where’s the dart-gun?

My Gatling-Pacifier.

Time methinks to see if I can tick off one or two more of my jobs from the Extremely Boring Domestic Jobs list. Then I feel a Veggie Version of a Vindaloo coming on.

I think I’m going to need a good curry before the day is out.

Mr Heron is back to his habits of hunting off the Cardinal’s bow. Pre-history, with feathers.

Chin-chin, chaps.

IGH & CW.