I suspect ‘large dog’ and would hope ‘unaccompanied’ but I doubt the latter. There just aren’t any stray hounds in this area. Seems to have been a most odd choice of piddle-site, and I can’t imagine that it hitherto offered an irresistibly exotic array of aromas. All it smells of now is Flash bleach.
What it is to be loved, eh?
No, but seriously.
I know the favoured-candidate hound, it’s walked past here each morning, and the bloke with it is welded body and soul to his “mobile telephone” (instead of more properly to his dog).
It’s just such an odd target for a dog to choose.
Perhaps it is “human”? [points des doute significant]
Given some of the behaviours* that I have witnessed on the canals and the towpath it would not be beyond the realms of bladderability.
[*All manner of things, ranging from a boat mooring ahead and mistaking the neighbourhood for a “dogging” area (and mistaking me for an audience!), to group fisticuffs of a most ungentlewomanly kind. The canals attract a complete cross-section of society, but weighted very, very heavily in favour of chuffing weirdos.]
Hey ho. So. The weather…
Whatever the official season, Autumn is upon us.
I have a week before the Cardinal goes into dry dock for his bum to be blacked, something that needs must be arranged every other year. Before then I also needs must change his engine starter battery for one of new and stout heart. The current starter battery is waning, but owes me nothing – the date scratched on the top is ‘2015’.
I have been juggling our mooring spots for a while, endeavouring to arrange moochings so that we can arrive in the vi-cin-it-ee of the marina (see paragraph above) not too late, not too soon, so that I may also have a few days thereabouts after the C’s B is B’d. Doubtless the Canal Company, as is their wont, will spot, spot and spot me again, since this appears to be a most favoured and patrolled area (civilised towpaths, easy to walk?) – and I’ve already been logged twice here since our previous move!
We bunkered the other day. We weren’t on the scheduled route (I now find out) but Jason very kindly reversed BARGUS from the junction and the well-well-well what have we here deck was replenished. That’ll see us into the heart of the Silly Season, but we’ll meet again, don’t know yet where, don’t know yet when, before Spendmas Proper. Then we’ll be into Winter Full and By in January and February, and then the meteorologically disgruntled months of March and April. By May Mr Stove may be ready to go back into hibernation.
I had “neighbours” yesterday, thankfully they’ve embuggerated off now. End of November, space hardly at a premium, three generous boat-lengths ahead of me on this little stretch alone to choose from, more beyond the bridge, still more back beyond the junction. So where do they oik up?
Here, that’s where:
That’s part of a load of laundry drying out there, so it wasn’t as though they imagined the Cardinal to be un-crewed. One of the shirts hanging there is red, the other green, and for all of you (similarly C.D.O.-afflicted souls) out there I hope that you appreciate the placement.
C.D.O. is similar to O.C.D. but the letters are in the correct alphabotanical order.
This isn’t London or Bath or Birmingham or some other metropolitan hell-hole, this isn’t high season. Not even stern to stern, but bow to chuffing bow, damned near rubbing buttons. Why I do not know. Afraid of the dark, perhaps, or some high percentage of “Meerkat” in their genome. Whatever the reason, it’s rude.
Nobody minds being bumper to bumper when necessary, but really…
Did they catch a glimpse of me and think to themselves ‘Oh yes, now there’s a dyed-in-the-wool people person, let us all cuddle up together’?
Mad, impetuous fools.
It’s good that they’ve gone. I don’t have to get Mr Hacky-Hacky out of the toolbox.
Mr Hacky-Hacky is a close personal friend of Mr Biggenthwacker (but between you, me and the gatepost, he’s a bit sharper).
Ian H., moving on to slaughter some broccoli for lunch.