On days when you wake up with a rotten cold and have absolutely no access to the medicines that work, thanks to the delicacy of your travel-sized foetus, there’s really nothing else to do but hire a narrowboat and go off down an Oxfordshire canal for the day.
The old chap who lent us one was determined to dampen our nautical high spirits – probably afraid we’d sink the thing and it’d get docked from his wages – and spent fifteen minutes telling us all the different ways we could die on a narrowboat. Fall in (dramatic wiggle of foresty eyebrows) and three seconds later you’ll be in the propeller and being taken home in several carrier bags, a fact he wanted the pregnant girl at the back to be especially aware of. Presumably because three seconds isn’t enough for me to get anywhere these days, and definitely not out of the way of a propeller.
Well, I am all for safety first. We didn’t even think to bring carrier bags.
They really do leave you to get on with it, once all the talk of propeller death is over and done with. We did swinging bridges and locks and everything.
Timothy did his best steering when chewing on a breadstick in a pirate-ish fashion. If pirates were inclined towards Italian wheat-based appetizers rather than tobacco or bottles o’ rum.
Once relieved of the tiller, he had time for a bit of bridge-top gymnastics (is this where TJ gets it from?).
And then there was delicious barbeque, and not even one person went home in carrier bags, and I only had to use the dank little portaloo three times, which these days counts as a big fat win.
In your face, Sudafed. IN YOUR FACE.