General Witterings -
Brrrrrrrr!!!  on 'Rosy'

Something was happening on Thursday.  Boats move around a bit at their moorings, and one gets accustomed to the gentle movement.  But late on Thursday, the movement was different, for the reason that the wind, for the first time since I've been here, was coming from the East.  Since Rosy is pointing westward, having a chill East wind blowing up one's back passage is ... 'uncomfortable' shall we say.  The Capitaine of the Port du Plaisance came round to check that us live-aboards were OK for water, as he was going to turn it off.

Friday morning was, for a Brit, very strange.  The easterly was still blowing, and it was cold:  -7°C before dawn, rising to -3 when the sun got up.  When the wind blew, the wind chill factor lowered the apparent temperature even more.  Yet it was dry.  No ice on the roads and no frost.  A thin film of ice in the basin, but that was gone by about 9am.

This (Saturday) morning the ice had formed on the basin, and even at 1100 hours it was still -7.

Rosy is warm enough.  Friends who own 'Castor' phoned and asked me to check their boat.  They have no heating on it, AND they hadn't drained down their water system, so I fear the worst for them.

Rex the Scot couldn't get his boat warm, so he went off this morning to get a gas fire.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

There are several things about the Army that I really miss.  One is the 24 hour rat pack (rat = ration) - a box that holds all one's food for 24 hours.  Oatmeal blocks that one could die for.  Hard tack biccies that are the ideal accompaniment for cheese (and can usefully double up as knuckle dusters) and ... wait for it ... condensed milk.  YummmmYYYYY!!!!

I've not had any for a long time, as even a small tin is a bit too much to scoff-off all in one go.  However, I've just found out that tubes (like toothpaste tubes) of it are available.  The latest Rosy cooking sensation is apples, peeled, cored and sliced into a baking tray, bit of butter, slurp of wine, dash of rum, shake of balsamic vinegar, and a drenching of brown sugar, all baked in a medium oven for about 60 minutes, put into a bowl and topped with lashings of condensed milk.  Scrummy, and for sensation seekers only!!!

LITTLE SNIPPETS

David Plonkette brought this topic up during the past week, with his suggestions about a definition of Britishness, in which he included a lack of genital mutilation.

I'm sure that no-one is interested in the state of my genitals, but I feel obliged to declare an interest, and to lay my cards on the table (as it were).  Genital mutilation was performed upon me shortly after birth.  This was the second attempt on my life.

The first occurred shortly after my birth.  I have an older sister.  None of this rubbish about "Feel the new baby in mummy's tummy".  Sister Jenny was told nothing at all about the prospective new arrival, not even that one was expected.  She was a bit surprised one day, when it was suggested that she might like to bugger off for a few days to stay with one of the neighbours.  When she returned she found this new thing (me) in the house had usurped her bedroom, and had taken over her mother.  She decided that something ought to be done, so she developed a cunning plan.  I was born in winter, so a coal fire was kept burning to keep us warm.  Her plan was that my pram should tip over, depositing me in the fire, which would consume me.

He plan misfired.  The pram tipped over, but it deposited me on the hard, tiled hearth, rather that the fire itself.  This caused me to make loud and voluble noises, which brought mother to the scene, who gave Jenny a leathering for not taking good care of me.

The second attempt on my life occurred when I went for the chop.  Snip snip went the surgeon, and instructed my mother not to worry, as I'd be a bit fractious for a few days(!!!) but everything would be all right.

That night I was truly fractious, but the doc had said everything would be OK, and my ma (a nurse) believed him!!  It was Pa who felt that the pool of blood in my cot was NOT all right.  The stitches had burst, and I was bleeding to death.

Of course, I knew nothing of this.  All I knew when I was 8 or 9 is that there was a small hole in my foreskin, like an ear piercing, through which I could poke an orange stick, or a pin, or something similar.

As you can imagine, this is a status symbol, and a money-making proposition for a young lad - no one else at school could do such a thing.  It all ended when Emberson, in a fit of jealousy, speared his own foreskin with the point of his dividers - and blamed his behaviour on my influence!!!  I made up my mind to keep my willy to myself in future.

(Apparently Mike George's first money making attempt, at that age, was to offer for sale a picture of a pregnant woman.  Irresistible to sparky young lads.  Half a dozen paid over their sixpences.  Mike gave them a penny postage stamp, with (of course) the head of the Queen on it.  She was pregnant with Princess Anne at the time!!  I think Mike kept the money, but got beaten up).

We (my ex and I) were going to leave our son unmutilated, but when he was 3 or 4 or 5(ish) he had a lot of discomfort, so (after a second opinion) he went for the chop.  We lived next door to nice couple with 2 girls of about Tom's age.  Mrs Next-Door's rather grand parents used to drive over in their Rolls Royce, partake of Sunday lunch, and take the family out for a drive in the afternoon.  It was always rather a stilted affair, as everybody would very much rather be doing other things, and one had to be on one's best behaviour.  The drive was enlivened one afternoon when the youngest little girl, after a long, boring silence, suddenly piped up:  "Tom's just had a little bit cut off the end of his willy!" A pause for effect.  "I know, 'cos he showed me".

Toodle pip!!

Bill