Still wet and wild at the moment, and the weather’s no better than it ought to be, too. Mr Stove is in, out, in, out more frequently than an English Prime Minister. Generally he’s been lit just for the cheer, but he can be a cussed soul, not liking to be called into service if he considers the it of it to be ‘not near enough zero Celsingams’.
We (voluntarily) go nowhere in such breezes. Many do, and cheerfully, and good luck to them and to their semi-sober crews. Cruising is not a problem, but I don’t do it because there’s too much opportunity for dispoliteness when passing other people’s boats, and much opportunity for disconvenience in esp for a single-hander when taking off or when landing. Besides, there’s no point, sow hybo ther.
I shall instead sit here today and think warm thoughts. Downing Street aflame, that sort of thing. Westminster in a state of embers perfect unto the baking of potatoes. Richy Soonbak with a sparkler in each ear and a Roman Candle up his Larry The Cat in Office. A politician with sufficient cojones to actually honour the pensions “Triple Lock” when it actually costs a bit, that sort of warm (and wholly in vain) thought.
Why does England do all of this foreign “Halloween” sh*te? It’s transatlantic, not local. Guy Fawkes Night is what England does and should (only) do. I have a distinct feeling that the change from real festival to plastic nonsense is a quite deliberate move over the decades led by a still-nervous Establishment.
That’s it, half of this post disappears each time that “autosave” kicks in and is lost. The internet here is positively medieval. To whomsoever stoled the Cholmondeston-with-Venetian mobile mast, please return it at your erliest convenience, whereupon you may be allowed your life.
G’bye folks until the internet returns!