In their daily lives moorhens make a sound like a doggy chew-toy squeaking, sort of high-pitched hiccups. Spring having sprung, two of them had at it, so to speak, right alongside the Cardinal this morning and – without delving into the realms of the purely pervy, staying in the Land of Curiosity instead – I had high hopes for a grand symphony in C-squeak major. Ee-eee! Eee-eee! Ee-eeeee! Something like a chihuahua on helium trying to audition for the Bee Bees while simultaneously attempting to bounce over a garden fence using a trampoline.
Not so. It appears that moorhen How’s Yer Father? is nothing more than duck-sex with the same old near-drownings but less flapping about. None of the expected squeaky-toy sound-effects. Imagine two depressed ducks who think that they ought to if only for the sake of their marriage and what the neighbours might think, but who don’t really want to.
The Natural World can be so disappointing at times.
You none of you needed to know this, but since it was a lesson that the Universe decided to share with me this morning, I thought it churlish to not share it with all of you. Had I won the contract for the design of Nature things would be very different indeed.
So, apart from the Gallinula voyeurism, what’s been occurring?
Messrs Bargus, yonder fuel boat, drifted past a few days since. Where ordinarily I would leave the well-deck clear this year I stocked up again. If you spend the money (on useful things and only on useful things) then rampant inflation is akin to earning the interest that the global banks having been conning us out of for so long. With luck the coal will sit there until Autumn, gently compounding itself (and not in a chemical way).
Messrs Bro called, and we had a most splendid trip to patronise the Bunbury Chippy. Chips with valt & sinegar and all washed down with a cold Bandelion & Durbock. Happy daze.
The other other morning was so splendid (at egads o’clock) that we – the Cardinal and I – the Cardinal and One – took a cruisette for a couple of hours. We passed the Northern Services and, on the basis at my age of, as the saying goes, never passing up a chance to pee, never trusting a fart, &etc, called in to dump rubbish, replenish water supplies and gazover the gazunders.
Sadly, I did so while alternating between mourning and fuming, since the last there of a great long line of hedgerow & treeth has been stumpily removed, presumably the better for boaters to enjoy the undeniable aesthetic delights of the Cheese Factory’s ar*se end.
Many’s the time I’ve walked past those now-dead woody critters and apologised for stepping on their exposed roots. Yes, I talk to trees (oh as though you hadn’t already drawn that conclusion all by yourself).
We winded in the Usual Suspects, under a creepy sky. Bunbury Winding Hole would appear, on my purely unscientific experience, to be silting up. The top is, as they say, getting closer and closer to the bottom.
The reed beds are also unilaterally expanding their territory without international treaty.
Steps up to Nuremberg lecturn, assumes Papal position with the hands (I am trying “Italian” on for style), and asks that all of those within a day trip trip of Bunbury please use the winding hole and give it some winding welly while you do so – let’s de-silt it before we (and by ‘we’ I mean I ) lose it. 😉
I was brutally attacked by rainbow bubbles on our return (whatever happened to Brut Aftershave?) while Dead Slowing it past the moorings…
…and things then became unpleasantly busy, with two Angloid-Welsher boats returning to base and a chap on a stubby chasing me back down to the Wardle Metropolitan Precinct District Environs Area ish sort of.
As far as I am concerned, three boats is a serious traffic jam.
Note to self – setski thee off at 0500hrs in future, not 0600hrs.
We’ll sit the weekend out now as best an offensively moored-up boat can, thank’ee kindly for the invitation but I’m
shampooing my ear and nostril hair
putting cream on the cat’s pucker-rash at fifteen-minute intervals
indexing my collection of Gardener’s Weekly centrefolds
just not coming to the party; accept it and live with my decision
and we’ll think about cruising on to pastures new(ish) again sometime thereafter.
I have broccoli for lunch (and other fine vegetables), so why would I move?
Hopefully you, dear reader (singular – in all senses of the word 😉 ) are just dine and fandy. Gossip and scandal please in the comments section.