Mentally, of insanity.
Meteorologically, of Winter.
Imagine if you will a great Warehouse of Weather in the sky. They’ve finished their stock-take for the quarter and someone is sweeping the warehouse floor and pushing the detritus out of the loading-bay door. Bashed and broken bits of weather are covering the planet below in intense waves with periods of uneasy inactivity while the sweeper walks back for another broomful. Dull, grey nothings intersperced with lashing monsoons and silly winds. Warm, cold, wet, dry, interesting, mind-crushingly silly.
Not unlike Human society at the moment, except that I am confident that the weather will improve.
We’ve had Zombies on the towpath. Hordes of them. Were it not for their speed over the ground being limited by friction in the plastic hips causing heat build-up and medical staggeration of the Alpine Walking Poles I might have described them as a stampede.
Seriously, they’re terrifying. I don’t know if it’s the sound of waterproofed thighs constantly chafing or the aroma of mothballs, but whatever it is, it calls to the primeval. The photograph above shows just one batch (for they walk in batches), the thunder of their hooves went on intermittently for days as they crossed the great Cheshire Plains. Part of the terror is that I have no idea what the herd feeds upon.
I fear that one day Mr Stove might issue a wisp of smoke as the herd passes, betraying my juicy, calorie-laden presence. It would be just my sort of luck if most of them had their best chewing-teeth with them, too.
The “Day Boat” from Angloid Welsh half a mile ahead has been having fun. On Saturday it approached to the sound of a heated “discussion”; a chap being pressured into taking the tiller and reluctantly doing so right alongside the Cardinal. Aforesaid reluctant chap got the Day Boat past the Cardinal and promptly smacked into the boat moored immediately behind. When I peeped – as one must – out of the side-hatch, the original steerer was back at the tiller and the boat in full reverse.
The boat in the photographs here was from Sunday, and I watched from the relative personal safety of the bridge, being then upon the completion of Second-Walkies. They had developed a quite sensible if somewhat theatrical tactic to deal with the approach of any moving boat; immediately steering themselves into the armco. We’ve all been there, and there are still days when that’s my first best navigational recourse.
The method does rely though upon there actually being any free armco available as and when needed. Fine here but not something that will stand them in terribly good stead going through Nantwich, with mile upon mile of bow to stern moored boats.
In the photograph above the moorings time-restriction post is clearly visible (and the Cardinal is moored something like a yard entirely without). At the other end of the restrictions the official post rather sums up the essence of the Canal & River [Mis]Trust Ltd.
The post is rotten (in the quite literal sense), wholly detached (including from reality), and yet some civic-minded soul has leant it up agin the hedgerow, roughly in position, albeit at a quite jaunty angle. It’s totally knackered. It does though, you may have noticed, sport one of the fresh and vibrant ugh-blue new-logo C&RT signs (in its rightful place, atop all of the “verboten” and “das restricted” information).
As ever, I do not criticise in the least the indivdual grunt workers who have been ordered to so affix the new sign, merely the sick Corporate Gestalt. Sic sic sic, Gloria, in both transit and excelsis, and it is Mundi today. Tudi tomorrow, then Wendi, then Thurdi and on we humans stampede eagerly under the rules and regulations of the One True Anti-Christ: Universal Entropy.
Humans will never be comfortable in human society until we change this constant nonsense about change being the only constant.
Just my humble opinion.
We (“we”) worship constant change.
Our ancestors knew better. It was not the individual carvings and representations that they really worshipped but the stone – the timelessness and resistance to change of the stone itself. The idols and statues and Easter Island bonces were mere incidental decoration.
Humans have a maximum safe speed in re change, and society of the past decades has exceeded it.
Talking of change for change’s sake alone, it is taking not some little personal effort to get myself back into the habit, not of the nearby convent, but of feeding Mr Stove as and when he needs it, around the o’clock hundred hours GMT and when do the hourglasses go back please, someone, anyone? Mr Stove is in an eager enough mood, it is I who forgets to replenish the dish of milk and combustibles in the hearth.
Hearth is where the home is.
Absence makes the hearth grow fonder.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your hearth and you’ll ne-ver heat a-lone…
Egads and zombies on a pogo-stick, I wonder if I’ve buttoned my cardigan up the wrong way and the blood to my brain is restricted.
Oh look – it’s raining again. How lovely.
And now it’s stopped.
Is Change really the only constant drizzle?
Stop thinking, Hutson, and de-evolve yourself back up the nearest tree.
Choose a job from the Long List of Jobs That Must Be Done, and do it. Perhaps perusing the Winter Stoppages and formulating some sort of mooching pattern to duck, dive and dodge?