Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Once again time has disappeared too easily.
This weekend was taken up with having my brother around, and then maybe going sailing on the Saturday. Which, with weather forecasts and all [and us making the decision to not go occuring about 11:30am], became Sunday.
So Saturday petered out into reading books, and then me watching Empire of the Sun (keep wanting to call it Prisoners of the Sun). An odd film, with a bit too much Speilberg magic [romping sentimentalism and general "don't let go" stupidity]. Quite a high "Isn't that...?" quota. [Wow, the kid with no eyebrows turned out to be the Psycho in American Psycho, and apparently Ben Stiller was in it too].
So watch a film, go to bed, repeatedly wake up, then have an insanely early alarm. Get up after my brother, and he hassles me about time all the way. Have breakfast complete with discussions on what is the ideal number of Weetabix [He says 2, I say 3. Whereas Neil at GfB mentioned having 4, which is just silly (the post about the Chinese restaurant by the airport. Can't be arsed to look it up now)], and then he mocks me for lining them up [if they're on their side, then you still have a bit of crunch left, without having to have them virtually dry]. I start eating a banana and get informed we are leaving. I take the half-eaten banana with me.
So he drive his car, and I have to navigate him out of here [surely he knows it?]. And then it's out onto early Sunday morn roads, complete with a liberal attitude to speed limits [and we're still getting overtaken by silver flashes of cars moving foolishly fast. Thank you "Hampshire don't believe in speed cameras"].
My brother demands music, but in my attempt to rewind the half-played tape that's already in their, I manage to make nothing happen. So he hits some button, and gets the thing to play. It's his copy of my Dodgy CD, complete with interesting artefacts developed during recording. It kicks off with "Good Enough" [lyrics, guitar chords]. Which takes me straight back to being in the back of a car with him, whilst on Venture camp, and being flung round haphazard Cornish roads. There's one point in the song where I still expect a vovlo with a caravan to come flying round the corner the other way, and for the caravan to collide with the mud guard on the trailer with an almighty bang. We didn't stop, and from the speed of the caravan I doubt they did either. No idea how much damage they had, but most of the mudguard simply wasn't there.
It's strange that a song can make you jump back ... counting it out and deciding it's too many ... years. Though that trip was all Dodgy and the Peaches song [the Presidents of the United States of America. Lyrics, tab - cleaner version lower down], and er, Wannabe, by the Spice Girls, which really dates it. It was strange time: full of stools in trees, camping sabotage wars (fairy liquid into drinking water barrels which only have a small opening = bloody difficult to rinse out without filling with bubbles. My idea. But it wasn't me [and they started it]), numb mouthed horses, gravel and bike incidents, suddenly getting the hang of surfing (and running out of water), smelling Newquay [hot rubbish], and things that still oughtn't be public.
So, um yes, songs equal memory triggers. And so it played on. And then got to the bit after the end of Free Peace Sweet, where my brother had recorded the contents of the Friends them tune single [The Rembrants?], which is mine. First time I've heard it in, oooh, five years, but never mind. The tape finishes, and we try to find something else. Radio 1 is selected. I ask the very ageing question of "is it supposed to sound like that?". It was some dance track with added fast-car-in-between-hills interference. The next song is no better. I'm for turning it off, by brother insists it ought to get better soon. Then the DJ kicks in. As my brother said "Spooney? Oh, cut your heart out with yourself". I guess you had to be there. During most my life. It's an adapted Robin Hood Prince of Thieves misquote. As I said, you had to be there. [Check the definition of Spooney. But damn he doesn't have the "e"].
We give up on music for a while, later my brother insists on it. Apparently he's just recorded some more tapes and wants to check them for faults. He is obviously going for juxtaposition, as the one I eventually put on has The Clash on one side, with Miles Davis on the other. It's The Clash side. He doesn't look impressed when I admit to not really knowing what they sound like [I probably wasn't born when their songs around. Ok so he would only just have been, you know what I mean]. It gets played, and sounds better than I would have expected, and distinctly unpunky in parts. So now I need to figure out who I thought they were. There's definitely some punk band who really annoy me, but I don't know who.
We arrive at the sailing club, and there's a distinct smell around. Which given we're up wind of the sewage treatment works, isn't good. We go in, and by the time I've finished locking the gate and walking down, my brother still isn't parked, as he's waiting for someone in a very yellow Morris Minor [even the hubcaps] to finish.
He parks, and we wander down to find out about the race. On the blackboard it helpfully says "11 am start. STD Course". Qu'est-ce que c'est, le standard course? Ask a passer-by, "Um, well it's the normal one. I usually just follow everyone else". Helpful indeed. Fortunately it's pinned to the notice board, next to people talking about lifeboats, dolphins, tiling, children and barbecues. We go and unwrap the boat, which consists of undoing the actions of the many people who assume it never moves. We prep it, and try to figure out why the right bunghole is smaller than the left one. We go and change, and it's the usual case of squeezing in between abandoned kit-bags, or changing in full view of the hallway. I realise that my sense, in the middle of the New Forest, that I'd forgotten something was right. Towel and swimming trunks, so I end up wearing my pants under my wetsuit. I've also forgotten how to get into my life jacket (it being very hard to get on and off probably means it's less likely come off in use, which I suppose is a good thing).
We come back out and I make a divot on the inside edge of the transom, through struggling to raise the mainsail, when the end of the boom is wedged in, and the more I pull the deeper it jams.
We got down the slip, trying hard not kill people on the way. I tried too hard, and the right-hand wheel slipped off the edge. Nice noise of metal grinding on concrete. Stop and we push and pull the boat and trailer back on to the slip. Straighten up, and carry on down, brushing the foot of some teenager kneeling by his boat. He looks annoyed, but as his parents have just said "Oh mind out" [not sure if it was to me or him though], he really should have realised what was happening. Anyway, using your body to block the main access to the beach really isn't brightest of ideas.
We launch her, and I stand like I'm controlling a big dog, whilst my brother goes to dump the trailer up the beach. The sea's warmer than it was last time [no painful shriek]. I let him sort out the rudder and tiller, as we're late, and he's starting to worry. He gets her half sailing, and I fling myself in. We go off, still doing up things that should have been done on land, but we ran out of time. It's not that.
And then we get out beyond the local wind disturbances, and there's quite a lot so wind. We're trying to run, but jib won't settle on either side. He keeps asking me the time, and I keep telling, knowing my watch is fast, but not by how much it is fast. We're still a long way off when we hear a horn. Was that the start? I start timing. The darts come flying out to our port. Oh dear, but only briefly, as the monohulls are still milling, so we've got another five minutes to get there. We round the end of the gate as the 1 minute horn goes. We gone down to the other end, trying to get a starboard course across the line, but someone calls starboard on us before we get there. The problem with sailing in strong winds with light crews, is that we're both so high up above the boom, we can't see much to leeward, as the sails block our view. We skirt round the calling boat's stern, and then tack back towards the line.
The start signal goes, and it's a while before we cross the line. Much of the next hour is full of me not getting tacks right, by brother forcing me into the kicker, ropes getting tangled and jammed [including getting the jib sheet stopper knot jammed in the seat slats], my brother issuing commands I don't understand, then explaining them briefly, and then issuing a different one. We don't apparently gain on anyone. I spend a ridiculous amount of time sitting out, hanging on to the jib sheet for support, and still not making much of an impression on the boat rolling. My brother constantly wants things tweaked, even though I can't budge said thing.
I don't know, I think I was just too tired, thirsty, hungry and unfit to enjoy it. And too unused to handling boats. Though at least I got work on my stomach muscles, and discover just how stable the Wayfarer is (she was fine despite leaning so far over that waves were breaking over the thwarts).
But we didn't capsize, we didn't break anything (that I know of), and we did get to curse people who capsize repeatedly at the mark (and then offer them help, if only because gallantry would allow us to retire with dignity). It wasn't bad, it's just I was glad when we finished.
And then my brother suggests staying out to practice tacks. We did for a bit, but then decided we'd miss lunch if we didn't get back. I'm not sure if it was to save me or him. So he helms us back to the beach, with me doing the Roger act over the bow. I then standing there slumped on the foredeck, waiting for a chance to get up the slip. It's strange how comfortable leaning on erratically undulating sail and solid wood can be. I think we manage to jump the queue, and get the boat on the trailer. It's much easier to handle than it used to be, but then we're both much bigger. And then it's the traditional stop-go traffic jam, as the person at the head of the slip spends a few minutes rinsing down their boat before moving on. Which is great fun with a heavy thing on wheels to alternately be moved and then kept still on a slope - there's never quite enough time to bother with chocks. Rinse the boat off, move it down towards where it leaves, shunting other boats out of the way in the process.
Mill round a bit, looking knackered, and the go up to the balcony to have lunch. But the only seats left are round the shady side, which is also the windswept side. Seating on a bench, and as I'm on the downwind end, I keep gaining errant bits of lettuce and bread, and spume from the top of people's drinks. It's quite cold and quite windy [when we were sailing it was averaging force 6]. Finishing, we retreat back round to lee of the building, which happens to be the sunny bit. Both my brother and I ended up seating in the fire stairs at the end - which leads to the curious event of having my hair ruffled by someone who usually doesn't know who I am.
We decide to go and change, and somehow manage to time it, so that people are carrying out protest meetings as we do. Listening to one complainant, who happens to be an ex-commodore, I'm trying not to crack up. The guy is attempting to exert "undue influence", which is made all the more comical by him changing his story. I can see my brother getting het up, as he obviously disagrees on something. They finish up with the ex-commodore, and move onto the next lodged protest. The complainant in this case doesn't do his case any favours by writing in his statement "me and X", though I think it's just his handwriting generally the committee members disapprove of. They send one person off to look for him, and I finish up and leave. As I do so, I see the poor guy on the way, so let him know what's going on.
Apparently in my absence my brother is adding his tuppenny-worth [being all knowledgeable about the current rules and other minor details]. He thinks the ex-commodore was in the wrong, and the other person acting in accordance with the rules. However the other person has a tendency to annoy people. So somehow I doubt the committee will find the same conclusion. I later discover that he-who-annoys didn't even know he'd been protested, as the ex-commodore decided retro-actively to protest (can you do that? Heck, he already did).
Hmm, strange the results are on the website, and yet I know that protest can't have been resolved yet. Ah the joys of provincial incompetence. [The results also have "?" in the space for the crew's name, on some of the Lasers. Lasers are singlehanders].
Hmm, we came 14th. Not good. Especially when there's only 19 results, and the last finisher is 16th. And we're 7 minutes behind the leader (both elapsed and corrected times).
But still in an overpowered boat with and rusty helm and inexperienced crew, what should one expect. And then it's hanging round on the balcony, watching a helicopter thwack and clatter overhead [it's got horizontal tail fin on one side, and the rotor on the other. Never noticed that before]. There's an RNLI event on the peir, so there's tons of stuff going on. Which leads us to stupid conversations about what is the collective noun for lifeboats. I say it's a salvage of lifeboats. There's their new prototype there, and it's huge, and, unsurprisingly, orange.
Eventually I get bored, and go into town to buy birthday cards. The shop is closed despite the signs to the contrary. Going back, I wander off along the shore to seek out the big red dredger thing, to see if it is a dredger. It appears to be replacing moorings. I continue round and watch the fish round the headland, as the tide streams across. Then back up the cliff, and back to the sailing club, looking for blackberries. It's early for them, but there's a couple of really nice bushes round there. I pick the ripest, and they're not quite ripe, but I've always that sweet yet astringent under-ripe taste.
Back down to the shore, and meander along the beach collecting seaglass. It's a tradition. But it's summer, and they haven't been enough recent onshore storms. So there's some but not much, and it's only little bits.
My brother appears to say bye, having apparently been wandering round for ages trying to find me. I'm getting a lift back with someone else, so I guess I don't get to hear the end of the Clash tape.
We leave fairly soon after that, and all are struggling to stay awake.
And that's pretty much it for the weekend.
Monday, and the only interesting thing that happened was seeing a lorry get stuck. Scenario is thus: There's a drive curving up the hill, which is joined from the left [outside of the bend] by another road, which is coming down the hill. A lorry had come down this second road, and pull out wide to take the corner back up the hill. Unfortunately it came out so far that the bar behind the back wheels (to stop cars disappearing under it) had grounded on the right. The rear wheels immediately in front weren't touching the ground. Oops. When I passed there was a selection of people hovering round it, someone pulling a pallet and some plastic out from under the hovering wheel [presumably having discover that the powered wheel would simply spit it back out again], and a traffic jam in both directions.
That junction is the main link between the different parts of the grounds of a private school. Being past the end of the term, there's masses of removal lorries and builders' lorries all trying to get round. Blocking the main access isn't going to be a popular move. Oh well.
I wonder how they got it out though? As when I was on coach that grounded [hairpin bend, reverse camber], we tried a variety of ways of shifting it, which resulted in the engine producing black smoke, then white smoke, and then brown smoke, and few loud bangs and general "things flying off and shredding themselves at high speed" noises.
Being on a school trip, we abandoned it and walked to the nearest village [closed pub, locked church, two holiday homes and a phone box which conked out after the first call (and still it has website). Yes, we were in Wales], trying to warn the people driving past that road was blocked [except for the school group who made rude gestures at us]. We got ferried away in assorted Land Rovers. On the news that night we discovered that the road was only cleared after they called the army in, and used several cranes to shift the coach.
[The coach company were happy as they'd only just got that coach back from the garage, after one of the drivers drove it through a coach wash, whilst leaving the luggage doors open. Weakly attached chunks of metal and rapidly spinning mechanisms aren't bodywork friendly].
I'll see if i can find out how they got it shifted.
Anyhoo,
This weekend was taken up with having my brother around, and then maybe going sailing on the Saturday. Which, with weather forecasts and all [and us making the decision to not go occuring about 11:30am], became Sunday.
So Saturday petered out into reading books, and then me watching Empire of the Sun (keep wanting to call it Prisoners of the Sun). An odd film, with a bit too much Speilberg magic [romping sentimentalism and general "don't let go" stupidity]. Quite a high "Isn't that...?" quota. [Wow, the kid with no eyebrows turned out to be the Psycho in American Psycho, and apparently Ben Stiller was in it too].
So watch a film, go to bed, repeatedly wake up, then have an insanely early alarm. Get up after my brother, and he hassles me about time all the way. Have breakfast complete with discussions on what is the ideal number of Weetabix [He says 2, I say 3. Whereas Neil at GfB mentioned having 4, which is just silly (the post about the Chinese restaurant by the airport. Can't be arsed to look it up now)], and then he mocks me for lining them up [if they're on their side, then you still have a bit of crunch left, without having to have them virtually dry]. I start eating a banana and get informed we are leaving. I take the half-eaten banana with me.
So he drive his car, and I have to navigate him out of here [surely he knows it?]. And then it's out onto early Sunday morn roads, complete with a liberal attitude to speed limits [and we're still getting overtaken by silver flashes of cars moving foolishly fast. Thank you "Hampshire don't believe in speed cameras"].
My brother demands music, but in my attempt to rewind the half-played tape that's already in their, I manage to make nothing happen. So he hits some button, and gets the thing to play. It's his copy of my Dodgy CD, complete with interesting artefacts developed during recording. It kicks off with "Good Enough" [lyrics, guitar chords]. Which takes me straight back to being in the back of a car with him, whilst on Venture camp, and being flung round haphazard Cornish roads. There's one point in the song where I still expect a vovlo with a caravan to come flying round the corner the other way, and for the caravan to collide with the mud guard on the trailer with an almighty bang. We didn't stop, and from the speed of the caravan I doubt they did either. No idea how much damage they had, but most of the mudguard simply wasn't there.
It's strange that a song can make you jump back ... counting it out and deciding it's too many ... years. Though that trip was all Dodgy and the Peaches song [the Presidents of the United States of America. Lyrics, tab - cleaner version lower down], and er, Wannabe, by the Spice Girls, which really dates it. It was strange time: full of stools in trees, camping sabotage wars (fairy liquid into drinking water barrels which only have a small opening = bloody difficult to rinse out without filling with bubbles. My idea. But it wasn't me [and they started it]), numb mouthed horses, gravel and bike incidents, suddenly getting the hang of surfing (and running out of water), smelling Newquay [hot rubbish], and things that still oughtn't be public.
So, um yes, songs equal memory triggers. And so it played on. And then got to the bit after the end of Free Peace Sweet, where my brother had recorded the contents of the Friends them tune single [The Rembrants?], which is mine. First time I've heard it in, oooh, five years, but never mind. The tape finishes, and we try to find something else. Radio 1 is selected. I ask the very ageing question of "is it supposed to sound like that?". It was some dance track with added fast-car-in-between-hills interference. The next song is no better. I'm for turning it off, by brother insists it ought to get better soon. Then the DJ kicks in. As my brother said "Spooney? Oh, cut your heart out with yourself". I guess you had to be there. During most my life. It's an adapted Robin Hood Prince of Thieves misquote. As I said, you had to be there. [Check the definition of Spooney. But damn he doesn't have the "e"].
We give up on music for a while, later my brother insists on it. Apparently he's just recorded some more tapes and wants to check them for faults. He is obviously going for juxtaposition, as the one I eventually put on has The Clash on one side, with Miles Davis on the other. It's The Clash side. He doesn't look impressed when I admit to not really knowing what they sound like [I probably wasn't born when their songs around. Ok so he would only just have been, you know what I mean]. It gets played, and sounds better than I would have expected, and distinctly unpunky in parts. So now I need to figure out who I thought they were. There's definitely some punk band who really annoy me, but I don't know who.
We arrive at the sailing club, and there's a distinct smell around. Which given we're up wind of the sewage treatment works, isn't good. We go in, and by the time I've finished locking the gate and walking down, my brother still isn't parked, as he's waiting for someone in a very yellow Morris Minor [even the hubcaps] to finish.
He parks, and we wander down to find out about the race. On the blackboard it helpfully says "11 am start. STD Course". Qu'est-ce que c'est, le standard course? Ask a passer-by, "Um, well it's the normal one. I usually just follow everyone else". Helpful indeed. Fortunately it's pinned to the notice board, next to people talking about lifeboats, dolphins, tiling, children and barbecues. We go and unwrap the boat, which consists of undoing the actions of the many people who assume it never moves. We prep it, and try to figure out why the right bunghole is smaller than the left one. We go and change, and it's the usual case of squeezing in between abandoned kit-bags, or changing in full view of the hallway. I realise that my sense, in the middle of the New Forest, that I'd forgotten something was right. Towel and swimming trunks, so I end up wearing my pants under my wetsuit. I've also forgotten how to get into my life jacket (it being very hard to get on and off probably means it's less likely come off in use, which I suppose is a good thing).
We come back out and I make a divot on the inside edge of the transom, through struggling to raise the mainsail, when the end of the boom is wedged in, and the more I pull the deeper it jams.
We got down the slip, trying hard not kill people on the way. I tried too hard, and the right-hand wheel slipped off the edge. Nice noise of metal grinding on concrete. Stop and we push and pull the boat and trailer back on to the slip. Straighten up, and carry on down, brushing the foot of some teenager kneeling by his boat. He looks annoyed, but as his parents have just said "Oh mind out" [not sure if it was to me or him though], he really should have realised what was happening. Anyway, using your body to block the main access to the beach really isn't brightest of ideas.
We launch her, and I stand like I'm controlling a big dog, whilst my brother goes to dump the trailer up the beach. The sea's warmer than it was last time [no painful shriek]. I let him sort out the rudder and tiller, as we're late, and he's starting to worry. He gets her half sailing, and I fling myself in. We go off, still doing up things that should have been done on land, but we ran out of time. It's not that.
And then we get out beyond the local wind disturbances, and there's quite a lot so wind. We're trying to run, but jib won't settle on either side. He keeps asking me the time, and I keep telling, knowing my watch is fast, but not by how much it is fast. We're still a long way off when we hear a horn. Was that the start? I start timing. The darts come flying out to our port. Oh dear, but only briefly, as the monohulls are still milling, so we've got another five minutes to get there. We round the end of the gate as the 1 minute horn goes. We gone down to the other end, trying to get a starboard course across the line, but someone calls starboard on us before we get there. The problem with sailing in strong winds with light crews, is that we're both so high up above the boom, we can't see much to leeward, as the sails block our view. We skirt round the calling boat's stern, and then tack back towards the line.
The start signal goes, and it's a while before we cross the line. Much of the next hour is full of me not getting tacks right, by brother forcing me into the kicker, ropes getting tangled and jammed [including getting the jib sheet stopper knot jammed in the seat slats], my brother issuing commands I don't understand, then explaining them briefly, and then issuing a different one. We don't apparently gain on anyone. I spend a ridiculous amount of time sitting out, hanging on to the jib sheet for support, and still not making much of an impression on the boat rolling. My brother constantly wants things tweaked, even though I can't budge said thing.
I don't know, I think I was just too tired, thirsty, hungry and unfit to enjoy it. And too unused to handling boats. Though at least I got work on my stomach muscles, and discover just how stable the Wayfarer is (she was fine despite leaning so far over that waves were breaking over the thwarts).
But we didn't capsize, we didn't break anything (that I know of), and we did get to curse people who capsize repeatedly at the mark (and then offer them help, if only because gallantry would allow us to retire with dignity). It wasn't bad, it's just I was glad when we finished.
And then my brother suggests staying out to practice tacks. We did for a bit, but then decided we'd miss lunch if we didn't get back. I'm not sure if it was to save me or him. So he helms us back to the beach, with me doing the Roger act over the bow. I then standing there slumped on the foredeck, waiting for a chance to get up the slip. It's strange how comfortable leaning on erratically undulating sail and solid wood can be. I think we manage to jump the queue, and get the boat on the trailer. It's much easier to handle than it used to be, but then we're both much bigger. And then it's the traditional stop-go traffic jam, as the person at the head of the slip spends a few minutes rinsing down their boat before moving on. Which is great fun with a heavy thing on wheels to alternately be moved and then kept still on a slope - there's never quite enough time to bother with chocks. Rinse the boat off, move it down towards where it leaves, shunting other boats out of the way in the process.
Mill round a bit, looking knackered, and the go up to the balcony to have lunch. But the only seats left are round the shady side, which is also the windswept side. Seating on a bench, and as I'm on the downwind end, I keep gaining errant bits of lettuce and bread, and spume from the top of people's drinks. It's quite cold and quite windy [when we were sailing it was averaging force 6]. Finishing, we retreat back round to lee of the building, which happens to be the sunny bit. Both my brother and I ended up seating in the fire stairs at the end - which leads to the curious event of having my hair ruffled by someone who usually doesn't know who I am.
We decide to go and change, and somehow manage to time it, so that people are carrying out protest meetings as we do. Listening to one complainant, who happens to be an ex-commodore, I'm trying not to crack up. The guy is attempting to exert "undue influence", which is made all the more comical by him changing his story. I can see my brother getting het up, as he obviously disagrees on something. They finish up with the ex-commodore, and move onto the next lodged protest. The complainant in this case doesn't do his case any favours by writing in his statement "me and X", though I think it's just his handwriting generally the committee members disapprove of. They send one person off to look for him, and I finish up and leave. As I do so, I see the poor guy on the way, so let him know what's going on.
Apparently in my absence my brother is adding his tuppenny-worth [being all knowledgeable about the current rules and other minor details]. He thinks the ex-commodore was in the wrong, and the other person acting in accordance with the rules. However the other person has a tendency to annoy people. So somehow I doubt the committee will find the same conclusion. I later discover that he-who-annoys didn't even know he'd been protested, as the ex-commodore decided retro-actively to protest (can you do that? Heck, he already did).
Hmm, strange the results are on the website, and yet I know that protest can't have been resolved yet. Ah the joys of provincial incompetence. [The results also have "?" in the space for the crew's name, on some of the Lasers. Lasers are singlehanders].
Hmm, we came 14th. Not good. Especially when there's only 19 results, and the last finisher is 16th. And we're 7 minutes behind the leader (both elapsed and corrected times).
But still in an overpowered boat with and rusty helm and inexperienced crew, what should one expect. And then it's hanging round on the balcony, watching a helicopter thwack and clatter overhead [it's got horizontal tail fin on one side, and the rotor on the other. Never noticed that before]. There's an RNLI event on the peir, so there's tons of stuff going on. Which leads us to stupid conversations about what is the collective noun for lifeboats. I say it's a salvage of lifeboats. There's their new prototype there, and it's huge, and, unsurprisingly, orange.
Eventually I get bored, and go into town to buy birthday cards. The shop is closed despite the signs to the contrary. Going back, I wander off along the shore to seek out the big red dredger thing, to see if it is a dredger. It appears to be replacing moorings. I continue round and watch the fish round the headland, as the tide streams across. Then back up the cliff, and back to the sailing club, looking for blackberries. It's early for them, but there's a couple of really nice bushes round there. I pick the ripest, and they're not quite ripe, but I've always that sweet yet astringent under-ripe taste.
Back down to the shore, and meander along the beach collecting seaglass. It's a tradition. But it's summer, and they haven't been enough recent onshore storms. So there's some but not much, and it's only little bits.
My brother appears to say bye, having apparently been wandering round for ages trying to find me. I'm getting a lift back with someone else, so I guess I don't get to hear the end of the Clash tape.
We leave fairly soon after that, and all are struggling to stay awake.
And that's pretty much it for the weekend.
Monday, and the only interesting thing that happened was seeing a lorry get stuck. Scenario is thus: There's a drive curving up the hill, which is joined from the left [outside of the bend] by another road, which is coming down the hill. A lorry had come down this second road, and pull out wide to take the corner back up the hill. Unfortunately it came out so far that the bar behind the back wheels (to stop cars disappearing under it) had grounded on the right. The rear wheels immediately in front weren't touching the ground. Oops. When I passed there was a selection of people hovering round it, someone pulling a pallet and some plastic out from under the hovering wheel [presumably having discover that the powered wheel would simply spit it back out again], and a traffic jam in both directions.
That junction is the main link between the different parts of the grounds of a private school. Being past the end of the term, there's masses of removal lorries and builders' lorries all trying to get round. Blocking the main access isn't going to be a popular move. Oh well.
I wonder how they got it out though? As when I was on coach that grounded [hairpin bend, reverse camber], we tried a variety of ways of shifting it, which resulted in the engine producing black smoke, then white smoke, and then brown smoke, and few loud bangs and general "things flying off and shredding themselves at high speed" noises.
Being on a school trip, we abandoned it and walked to the nearest village [closed pub, locked church, two holiday homes and a phone box which conked out after the first call (and still it has website). Yes, we were in Wales], trying to warn the people driving past that road was blocked [except for the school group who made rude gestures at us]. We got ferried away in assorted Land Rovers. On the news that night we discovered that the road was only cleared after they called the army in, and used several cranes to shift the coach.
[The coach company were happy as they'd only just got that coach back from the garage, after one of the drivers drove it through a coach wash, whilst leaving the luggage doors open. Weakly attached chunks of metal and rapidly spinning mechanisms aren't bodywork friendly].
I'll see if i can find out how they got it shifted.
Anyhoo,
