Tuesday, 29 December 2015

Hats

Sunshine, rain, ice, and snow.
In only an hour or two, I know
I do wish it would make up its mind.
So I can come and see you.
 
It’s difficult, as things go, to know just what to wear
And whether I should sport a hat to cover up my hair
I don’t want to arrive at yours, hair plastered to my skin
Beause if I looked bedraggled you might no let me in.
 
Shall I wear a trilby or will a bobble hat do.
A beret or a bowler or a hat like a Gnu.
What will people think of me?
More important what will you!
 
A trilby is too formal for that I do not care.
A bobble hat to casual and it will mess my hair.
A beanie or a rain hat will make me look a twat.
An umberella may well do, yes I can live with that.

Monday, 10 August 2015

Phillip Henson RIP

My dear friend,
          I am so very sorry you didn’t get the last few months they promised you. Trish says you are at peace now and I hope that really is the case.
          I enjoyed the time we all spent together though such times were too few. Others might not understand but we both had similar thoughts on many things. We were well on our way to being the greatest of friends.
          I will miss your jokes and your portly persona. Never again will we meet up on the river and share a beer or two. I remember you introduced me to scallops October 2009 when I was on boat-about down the Thames and we hooked up at Desbourgh.
          I felt very much a part of your circle of friends when you invited me to your house while I was moored at Walton.
I am truly honoured that you wanted me to have the Waterman and I will cherish it.
          If there is an after life I feel sure we will meet up and sink a few beers together once again! It was an honour to pass time in your company, I shall remember Teddington with you and Trish last year fondly. I am glad we had that time.

goodbye dear friend.
Maffi

Wednesday, 13 May 2015

The Stag Night

It’s Friday and the quiet has gone. Our pleasant idyllic evenings have abated for the weekend and been replaced with the raucous rasp of inebriated stags each trying to out do the other in volume, whilst relating stories that only they think are funny and most think are untrue, unless they themselves were present at the event. Many an alcohol laden breath speaks of exploits past, of dangers long since filed in the ‘great day’ file in their booze sodden brains.

Like the day they were naked in the town fountain, or when they drove across a roundabout at the top of the main road leaving town for London, and left a hole through the bushes. “Another tray of shots please barman”, came a voice from a table across from the bar.

Mechanical laughter impregnates the walls and glues itself to the beams only to fall later as dust to the floor around us and seep into the grain of the oak boards never to be heard again. Slowly the evening's noise reaches a crescendo of deafening proportions. At it’s peak it levels for a while and then staggers, step by step, to a more moderate cacophony. Still finding its way to small peaks on its way to the end of the evening, but it never falls to a comfortable level until the door is shut. With the doors finally closed their noise dies out as they disappear along the tow path.

Back on the boat more laughter spills out on to the canal and bounces along disturbing only the light sleepers close by. The moon has fallen from the sky and the ISS passes overhead. One by one the revellers fall into bed and the boat falls silent save for the occasional banging of the hull against the concrete piling as everyone seems to turn in their beds at the same time gently rocking the boat.