An Overnight Crash of Erg-Onomics & The New Pensions Double-Lock

The [Greek and Roman] gods alone know what this is in the hedgerow opposite the marina. A doll’s head on a twig? Some sort of gang-land warning perhaps in the squirrel world, or an impromptu item of “The Street Art It Is, Yes Indeed, Myffanwy”. Shocking, in the dusk light, whatever.

It was that we was on the move a week or so ago. Electricus, the Roman god of domestic batteries had other ideas for us though. One day the Cardinal’s domestic batteries were fine, the next as dead as a dodo’s uncle. You can’t do much with a 12V battery at 10.5V. Even the LED lights flickered uncertainly, not wanting to desert me, but, well… they did.

I’ve been reading Wodehouse by the original torchlight.

Arrangements were made and alchemical supplies of new lead and strong acid procured. Co-incidentally, almost exactly to the yard where similar arrangements were made some three or so years ago. Spooky.

The New

At least this batch failed cool, whereas on the previous mass WACO-style Death Of The Batteries they just took to heating themselves up, somewhat worryingly.

The most plausible explanation for their demise is that I have bored them to death. Not used them enough. I shall endeavour to kick seven shades of electrons out of these fresh, and see what happens. No idea how, of course, but I shall try.

The new industrially-styled pensions double-lock lock is now in place over the diesel tank filler, and very butch indeed it looks though I say it myself. I notice that one of the Chancellor’s little whimsies that he failed to mention in his speechlet yesterday was a 23% rise in fuel duty to come into effect March 2023. Can’t imagine why he omitted to mention such. The politicians that aren’t turkeys are plain plucked chickens, aren’t they? Eton breeds them weak in body and mind these days.

Combined with the new 113dB movement-alarms bow and stern one, and one’s assets, feel slightly less vulnerable than hithertofore and wotnot. The new blunderbuss helps, too.

Autumn – or certainly, November – is upon us in spades. Wind, rain, dull, grey, cold, cool, mild, blasting, monsoon, gale, wind, rain, blah blah meteorological blah. This is exactly the variety of weather that has Scandinavians snuffing out their hygge tealights and jumping off ice-floes into sabre-toothed seal infested seas en masse, shouting things such as ‘Think only this of me, Mother, that I didn’t float well or for long’. It feels, to me at least, to have been thus for weeks.

When I last made a minor domestic relocation a couple of days ago there was an unexploded rabbit wedged betwixt Cardinal and towpath, as seems usual. The animal had my empathy. Why, though, it followed me down the lock and appeared alongside next day I can not say. We were never properly introduced or anything.

Notable Benny – an unexploded wabbit (or indeed one such of many other forms of former wildlife) is a beastie, small, medium, or large, that has for one reason or another ended it all in the canal, and internal gases have begun to build up and to inflate matters. If a sphicter gives then all is well, and they become nothing more than peculiarly high-velocity items of ex-animal, burbling past, laying down a trail of methane. If a sphincter does not “give” though, well, they continue to inflate and become… worrisome. High-pressure spherical ex-wildlife is not something that anyone briefs a chap on when first he takes to the inland waterways. One stray spark from a cheroot and The End of Days would look like a Bank Holiday by comparison.

I suppose that some sort of defence might be made, with a bargepole and sharpened nail Duct Taped to the end, as with most things in life. Have at thee, thou soggy and over-inflated creature, I stab at thine intestines not with malice, Alice, but in hopes of restoring some dignity to thine passing. Boooooom!

There’s very little about life that is truly dignified, is there?

England has still not specifically outlawed the practise of stuffing the deceased with fireworks, the better to entertain mourners at the crematorium.

This is a good thing, since such is my only and best last hope for sparkling in any way during life (or death).

Given domestic ergs abounding or absent, and given the whether of the weather, I have little to no idea where or when I’ll be, except when I am, and then we shall see, whenever. It’s all a bit of a storm in a d-cup isn’t it? I have given up trying to plan, and I don’t set all that much store by simply going with the flow, either.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I want to be a tree. Or possibly a penguin.

Not the biscuit kind, no, but the sort that thinks that freezing its arse rigid in six months of darkness spent shuffling around in a circle while holding its testicles off the ice by balancing them on its feet is “a fine old time”.

Actually, no – I could do with a change.

A change is as good as arrest.

Unless it’s cardiac.

Do penguins have cardiac arrests?

I’ll take the tree option.

Chin-chin, chaps.

Ian H., Cardinal W., and An Unexploded Rabbit.

11 Comments

  1. I am sorry your Wodehouse reading was interrupted. But your mentioning it inspires me to pull out my dusty tomes. I’d like to reread Psmith, journalist, but the copy just disintegrated on me a few years ago and I had to let it go. I’ll probably replace it with an ebook.

    I hope your rabbit friend moves elsewhere. Rather a gruesome neighbor.

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    1. Yesterday’s book – Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time Of The Soul – was also odd, in that the previous keeper (I buy most of my books from second-hand shops) had highlighted words that I would guess that they had to look up, and written the meaning down in the margin. It was an insight into someone else’s reading age – and soul. 😉

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  2. There’s a video somewhere on YouTube of an unexploded whale and a complete nincompoop poking it with something sharp. The whale explodes and the nincompoop is covered in rotting whale viscera … there’s a strange sort of just in the world, sometimes. 😀

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    1. One of my favourites is of a would-be thief of items from a parked car. The miscreant lobs a loose house-brick at the car window. The car promptly throws it right back, smacking square into the miscreant’s face. Miscreant falls over, runs away holding broken nose &etc, back to Mummy. There’s a scarcity of justice in this world but, as you say, when it happens to be about… it’s glorious to behold. 😉

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  3. Oh, the joys and fears with which you entertain us, Sir! I wonder if the Ukulele Ladies would allow a brass euphemist in their orchestra…?

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  4. I saw an unexploded Jack Russell floating round the boat once. I almost fished it out of the water with the boat hook, mistaking it for a stray fender. It wouldn’t have made a good addition to the collection I already had in the gas locker, being it volatile and dead dog-ified. Fortunately I realised in time, before I accidentally prodded it with the hook bit and set if off.

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    1. They always make me sad, these items of drowned life. While they were struggling their last I was somewhere, unawares, probably nibbling a Rich Tea biscuit (instead of helping with rescue). Knowledge is everything, and I haven’t a clue.

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  5. Are you sure that the unexploded rabbit is not in fact an artificial object disguising some tracking device installed by the tyre drowners….that sunken eye a camera linked to a cosy office…..

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    1. I think that you may be on to something there – the Emperor of the Canal Company would surely have such devices made in his own image… and if there’s one thing common to dead wildlife, it’s The Sphincter. 😉 It’s all very grim. At least the swans appear to have stopped dropping like flies hereabouts, for the moment. The worry now though is that the flies will begin to swim like the swans.

      As the late Mr Roy Castle so accurately observed; medication, medication’s what I need. And here’s me not even able to play the big brass euphemism, let alone the trumpet.

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