Dudley came and went, Eunice may or may not still be around – Her Maj’s Met Orifice, like all of the mainstream media in their turn, never “follow-up” on an item – and the forecast for the week is blasting, with for an all of our tomorrows more of those fifty-eight mph gustoids in this neighbourhood. Ugh. The highest recorded “in” England – on the Isle of Wight – during “Eunice” was a new Elizabethan-era record of one hundred and twenty-two Victorian miles per Georgian hour.
Yes, that “picnic” table is bolted down to that concrete plinth – otherwise we would not be alongside one another. The smoke is lingering because we were in one of those brief “early morning” lulls, the ones designed to trick you into hanging out your laundry on single pegs.
The Cardinal done performed magnifibode, the ropes held and, while shaken and stirred, the cratch and tonneau remain intact. On the grounds that what worked once might work again I’ve made the same preparations for tomorrow’s 0500 hundred hours o’clock extravaganza (as in, left everything where it is and how it is, just tightened up that wot doth needed tightening). The only slight discomnobulation was that Mr Stove suffered mightily from back-draughts, the smokey-smoke billowing out into the cabin instead of being whipped away from the flue on the wufe. I’ll be awake and about before the peak of the possibilities, j.i.c., and anyway.
While the solar panels have worked wonders for a week and more there looks to be little chance of same today, so I am running Mr Engine. This will enfillinate the batteries and replenishment the hot water.
Two boats past us so far this morning, both before 08:30hrs. One a chap who seemed to be on a mission, possibly a boat mover, possibly an escaped lunatic. The other a mixed couple* of not some little accumulated years, very obviously out on a “jolly” and, as yet, quite oblivious to the need for a tad more speed to achieve “the steerage” in what is already a very cross wind. I wish them luck. I hope that there are no more.
[ *One male, one female, albethey both humanoid and about the same height. ]
The smoke signals of the lead photograph were, as they always are, but a brief phologistonic communication of an exothermic nature quite unavoidable and highly necessary while I rekindle Mr Stove’s love, with kindling. The only way in these breezes is to pile on the wood, get the flue nice and re-warmed, and only then add coal and only then in small amounts.
I can quite see how with these ten-minute pollution-fests from narrowboats the brain-confusion arises among the metropolitan sandal-wearing NIMBY brigades. Usually Mr Stove is lit from Autumn to Spring, it’s only in “weather situations” where he does this sort of thing, and then only briefly and for a specific porpoise.
I’ve always had to add coal to my stove with tongs (metal tongs, not the Chinese tongs running large parts of our inner-cities), one tasty nugget at a time. Is it just me or does anyone else who has to do something similar always feel as though they are placing little black-hearted souls in the furnace of Hell? Sometimes I worry about splitting up two (or more) nuggets that seem to have formed a relationship in the scuttle. Some of them go to their eternal damnation meekly and mildly, others fight back, rolling persistently away from where I wish to place them.
Oh. It’s just me.
If it helps at all, when I play the game of Placing The Black-Hearted Souls in the Hot Red Glow of Hell I name each little coal-ish nugget. ‘You, Mr Trudeau, can sit there on the edge, where you’ll burn but not swiftly, so the pain will be greater. You, Mr Macron, may sit alongside Mr Turdeau – oops – Trudeau – and share in the discomfort.’ Mr Gates, Mr Schwab and all of the other nincomnutwits I generally place in the centre, to burn quickly and disappear – as I wish that they would in real life.
Given the state of the Human World today it really doesn’t pay to be “sane”.
Make that three boats thus far. In an irony not seen since the White Star Line described the Titanic as “unsinkable” when filling in their inflated insurance policy application (later rejected!), nb Moor & Peace has just steamed past, with the breeze.
Well, wherever you are my reader – and after many years of building up this blog and posting once or twice at least a week like a loon, I now garner perhaps betwixt eighty and a hundred “views” per new post, with some (much-appreciated) half-dozen of these folk kindly commenting – I hope that you are happy and well and battened down again.
Battened down, that is, intellectually, emotionally, politically and meteorologically.
Wanders away from keyboard to set all of the esteemed members of “S.A.G.E.” into the flames, between the institutions of modern “journalists” and modern “police”. Sets a pot of water to boil on top of them all, for the rice to go with today’s veggie Vindaloo.
Ian H., & Cardinal W. Our electrons, as ever, spinning in a direction quite contrary to those of the rest of the Fabric and Infrastructure of The Local Universe.
p.s., make that four boats, and with this one had the Cardinal been 60′ long instead of 57′ the gentleman would have swiped us.
p.p.s., I done did the Met Office a disjustice – they have just decided to roll out a., the barrel and b., Storm Franklin. There is no rumour in the truth that Franklin Mint will be issuing a limited edition model of the storm fashioned in high-density plastic and with a cerstification of authententcity.