Boatbird’s been a bit boring of late. No adventures. Nothing to rant about.
Not even a boat trip – and that’s unforgivable, the weather having been so glorious. Still, watch this space, I can feel a move coming on.
I blame being born on a Saturday. You know the old rhyme…
Monday’s child is fair of face (not me then)
Tuesday’s child is full of grace (sadly not me either)
Wednesday’s child is full of woe (gladly not me)
Thursday’s child has far to go (er..nope)
Friday’s child is loving and giving (well…)
Saturday’s child works hard for a living (yep, that’ll be me then)
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay (thankful for small mercies then..)
It’s true, I was born on a Saturday and, whilst I don’t work that hard these days, I do still have to work. Back in the day though, I lived and breathed work – couldn’t get enough of it. Glad I got over that.
I’m from a generation that was brought up on the promise of retirement and a state pension at age 60, a bus pass and winter fuel money. Sod’s law came into play though: the rules were changed and goalposts moved. As it stands now (and I’ve no faith that it won’t alter again) I shall have to wait another six or seven years.
Hey ho.
Lucky for me, I am still in touch with a lot of my old buddies from school, who also fall foul of retirement rules, so some consolation in all being able to bitch about it together.
We’re planning a bit of a get-together in Southwold very soon, which I’m really looking forward to and hope to record our antics here, so look out for pics of all us old dears. To be fair, and I may be a little biased, I do think we’ve all fared pretty well – have to see what you think.
We have done some of this though…
And this…
And harvested some of these from the roof garden…
You know, they taste like real strawberries. Funny that. I suppose it’s the lack of a billion air miles and hours of chilling as they travelled.
I’ve really enjoyed the sunshine, the heat and being able to unbatten Hobo’s hatches, open the boat right up to catch a through breeze. Can’t beat it.
But otherwise I’m back to scratching my head and devising get rich quick schemes once again. I don’t even want to be rich – just have enough to keep me accustomed to the manner in which I wish to live.
As in not having to go out to work. Which allows more spontaneity, more fun, more adventures, gives me more time to do more of what I want to do.
Write/paint/draw/play music/read and generally mess about on the river.
And, more to the point, not having to drag my sorry arse out of bed in the morning until I’m good and ready. I like to take my time getting into the day, nice and easy.
And I’d like to pay a lot more attention to Hobo. OK, she’ll never be one of these shiny, highly polished, tidy, really smart boats – she’s lived in 24/7 and not a weekend/holiday boat that gets lavished with attention just after she’s taken out of the cotton wool for her annual airing.
That said, Hobo is a great boat and I love her dearly, but she would benefit from some time spent on her.
Time. What no-one ever seems to have enough of.
Could be worse…
I could be living in Greece or – heaven forbid – be living in a house.
Boatbird
Boatbird 