The mean old Nene

The wind is howling around again, thumping the boat against the mooring, making the ropes creak and the doors rattle.  I did suspect that the easterly wind we had last week was all that was holding up the neighbours shed and if the wind changed direction it would come down again but the wind is now from the west and very strong and the shed is still standing, maybe he did use long nails this time.  Actually the shed is in the process of being painted green and it looks quite good, the strange angles of the corners and the doors adding to its rustic charm.

It seems that yesterday people were falling in The Middle Nene. The Nene is rather a grumpy river at the best of times with its Strong Stream sulks and tight turn tantrums, vicious weirs and short lock landings positioned at awkward angles.  It's a beautiful river but definately grumpy. When it joins up with its partner in crime the wind it changes from grumpy to vindictive.  Yesterday the wind and the flow were strong, so the Mechanical Magician and the Haulage Contractor decided it was just the right day to drag the engineless boat back to Fotheringhay.  For this journey a Cabin Girl replaced the Cabin Boy, sadly not me because I was off to work in London. I’d have loved to have been there, not helping just standing with a note-book in hand and a camera at the ready.  I’m told they had a little difficulty at Ashton with the boats blown in the wrong direction then at Cotterstock the Haulage Contractor fell in the river. ‘It was interesting watching my propeller go round’ he said ‘I’d never seen it from that angle before’. Something happened at Perio (I can’t remember what they said) and at Fotheringhay they got a rope and chain tangled in the prop. So it was a short but eventful journey. I read the blog of nb No Problem last night and it appears that Sue also fell in the river.  The Nene must have been in a particularly stroppy mood yesterday.

Last week when I drove to London the trees and hedges along the A605 were bare and bleak, this week the stark outlines are softened by a green fuzz.  Last week when I was driving through London the roadside announcements warned of traffic delays due to ‘an event’ on 17^th April.  It took a while for me to realise that ‘the event’ is Thatcher’s funeral.  Yesterday in London the preparations for her State (sorry Ceremonial) funeral were underway.  In Fleet Street, the barricades were already in place.  They all had blue stripes painted along them, I did wonder if they would paint red stripes if it was for a Labour Prime Minister and then thought they wouldn’t need to because they’d just stick a Labour Prime Minister in a hole in the ground. There were sniffer dogs (rather sweet spaniels) around St Pauls and men up ladders placing notices for the re-routing of buses.  The outside broadcast vans were thick on the ground. Businesses on the route have been advised to supply their own security guards.  Last week Parliament was re-called so they could spend six hours spouting tributes to her.  What a waste of time. What a waste of money.  The latest poll suggests 60% of people are against taxpayers funding a funeral which will cost an estimated £10million.  Margaret Thatcher: as divisive in death as in life.