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Mon, 11 Apr 2016 7:20 am BST- Light Rain
5 Day Forecast

Wind 2.0 mph @ 40°
48.0°F/8.89°C Humidity 93% Pressure 29.65 (S)

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readyabout
Nov-01-2010 @ 11:21 PM                           Permalink
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Sunday, 24th October:

Wet Day on the Waveney

The Broads Authority guy at Somerleyton looked at me with a face as long as a Flanders trench. It was certainly a hard rain, straight out of a Bob Dylan song. I had asked him innocently enough if the weather was a bit unusual. The answer was written all over his face. His explanation was brief but significant. Apparently, the ground was now saturated with water – it just couldn’t take any more. This was mid-October, and it wasn’t supposed to get this way until the end of November. His concern was obvious: what would happen to the Broads if it just continued like this?

It had been raining for the vast majority of the past few days, which marked the start of our final short break in Lady Emerald before the winter lay-up. She hadn’t been out of the water for at least two years to our knowledge and we had only bought her at the end of August; she was definitely due a well earned hull clean and anti-foul. Our plans for all-seasons cruising would have to be put on the back burner until next year for our plucky little ‘70’s Broom ‘Skipper’ – our new second home....

Meanwhile, the closed boom that lay ahead, while the divers worked on the ageing swing bridge structure, dashed any hopes of getting through on the mid-day passage window. Having just missed the morning slot, we needed a little under seven feet for comfort, and by twelve o’clock the flood tide would see to it that clearance would be a lot less than that.

Earlier that day we had experienced the dubious pleasures of low air draught cruising when St.Olaves Bridge offered a convincing but fast diminishing 6’ 9” and we christened the classic folding wheel house windows routine with adrenaline-fuelled agility just as the sky fell in: perfect timing. Under we went at speed in the swollen waters with Mary and I crouched gingerly, open and exposed, staring up bemusedly at a lethal collection of fine old Edwardian rivets and girders. At the last minute I remembered the spot light on its swivel mounting and managed to yank it backwards before it succumbed to the destructive powers of low-bridge-syndrome. Fortunately, before taking commission of Lady E we had got a Horning yard to cut the rear coach-roof steps and weld on sleeves and butterfly bolts for quick removal. Had I forgotten to remove that, then things would have got a whole lot more interesting. As it was, we emerged unscathed from the bridge into a drenching and unwelcome ice-cold shower and soon learnt the hard way how to rebuild our soft-topped shelter in double quick time while underway - and in torrential rain, of course.

When we had embarked upon Broads cruising, I had naively thought that it was just the bridges at Potter Heigham, Beccles and Wroxham that would require evasive action; I hadn’t bargained on one of the wettest mid-Octobers in living memory to bring others into that category. The day was turning out to be a steep learning curve....

We had begun at dawn, after the proverbial ‘dark and stormy night’. That might be the clichéd first line of a Victorian penny dreadful, but there really isn’t a much better way to describe the night of the 23rd. OK, the moon did show itself on occasion, but that only served to add its eerie light to the nocturnal drama. We had eaten a good meal ashore at Burgh in warm, friendly surroundings, before creeping back to the boat in the windswept darkness. Fortunately, Mary had remembered a torch. Boots were de rigueur.

Burgh had been chosen as our night’s mooring because of its proximity as a departure point for Breydon Water, which was to be our passage back to the Northern Rivers. Slack water was before dawn, but we planned an early start just as the sky started to lighten and the channel markers became visible. Rather that scenario, than groping across in evening darkness. On arrival at the mooring quay that previous afternoon, we had become slightly apprehensive when noticing the tell-tale reeds lining the back of the quay-side gravel pathway before it rose to form the flood defensive bank behind. There’s only one way those reeds can get there – and that’s by water. Still, the near-equinoctial spring tide goes as far down as it goes up, so we fancied our chances early the next morning. The Burgh mooring quay runs roughly north-south on the eastern bank of the Waveney. The bad weather had been stirred up by a series of low pressure systems racing in from the Atlantic.

So, there we were on the lee side of the river: not an idea situation in both rising wind and water. I suppose a well-travelled Broads boat skipper would have had an untroubled night; the only other boat moored there – a large twin engine traditional sea-going craft - seemed relatively unperturbed by the nocturnal drama of wind and water. Not me! After our experiences at Cantly a few nights previously, when we had awoken to nearly half a foot of flood water overtopping the quay, I was fully aware of the potential consequences of extreme weather. At Cantly, there had been a northerly wind blowing, keeping us protectively clear of the bank, but here, with flood waters and a spring tide, I could see that if we were really unlucky, the boat could be blown over the edge of the quay and possibly – just possibly – come to rest on one of the ancient low rusty mooring bollards which line the Burgh quay. That could be very nasty indeed: holed below the waterline...

I was up two or three times before dawn. Years of offshore sailing had filled me with all the possibilities that Mother Nature can throw at us. Maybe the murky night filled my head with wild imaginings - and I must have looked a faintly ridiculous sight in flapping pyjamas and boots, shining a torch on the underside of the hull to see how we were positioned. I saw the lights of the high-sided sea-goer come on once in the early hours as their chine got caught on the quayside edge and they lurched at a rather alarming angle momentarily, until the boat slid back into the new ebb tide. We suffered no such problems as the fore and aft springs acted like a cradle, holding the boat away from the top of the flooded quay and the potentially lethal iron bollards. Eventually, when things had gone past the critical point, I got back to sleep, while we waited for the ebb and the darkness to run their course.

The trouble with a really early departure is that it’s difficult to engage brain before casting off. There we were pointing south with the tide starting to come in and horizontal rain pressing us into the bank. I tried to drive off in forward gear and despite courageous use of the boathook from the wife, spent the first few seconds bumping along the dark outline of the quay before prising ourselves clear with sacrificial use of the fixed quarter fender. Damage was slight – but entirely unnecessary. What I should have done [i.e. what I had once learnt long ago on a Yachtmasters course] was to double up the bow line and put her in reverse, allowing the flooding tide to bring her out while pivoting on the bow line, releasing when there was enough sternway to carry her away from the lee shore safely.

Simple....when you’re fully awake.....

It was blowing pretty strongly – probably a gale in the North Sea. Visibility was worse than expected - and in the southern reaches on Breydon Water at least, identification of red and green markers in the pre-dawn was not easy. I started to wonder what we were doing out there. The water seemed higher than it should be and the familiar mud flats were nowhere to be seen. The vague silhouette of the remains of the Roman Castle seemed to stare reproachfully back at us. I checked the times: a little late, perhaps, but the flood had only just begun; and it has started from a pretty ‘springish’ low. It was tougher going than expected, with the wind over tide situation kicking up more of a sea than the hull found comfortable; we were slamming into the troughs alarmingly at times.

Worse was to come. Once through Breydon Bridge, heading for the yellow post, we could just make out the Bure Bridges Gauge in the dawn light. It said: six and a half feet! I couldn’t believe it; just six-and-a half-feet. Mary was all for giving it a go – for taking the wheel house down even though the rain was coming down in bucketfuls - but I knew that it was hopeless. Although the flood still had hours to run, even as I stared in disbelief, the gauge was dropping to six! The wind was starting to sweep us towards the east shore, so I just turned and headed back into the relative safety of Breydon Water. We were now directly into the wind with spray flying everywhere, but the tide was strong and it seemed that we were at the entrance to the Waveney again in no time at all! Across to the right we could make out the boats at the Berney Arms moorings. They seemed to be in the middle of a small lake.

We progressed up the Waveney with a mixture of relief and disappointment. The St. Olaves Bridge height caught us by surprise but I vaguely remember reading something about the work on the bridge at Somerleyton, and the presence of the Broads Authority launch at the temporary barrier was a welcome sight, although the obvious environmental concerns of its occupant made us realise that these were far from normal conditions.

A leisurely stroll to the nearby pub as the skies began to clear helped to relax us. Soon it was five o’clock and the barrier was removed. We shot the bridge with 8’ and canopy up; inches to spare, but that’s all it takes. A procession of boats was making a dash for moorings before nightfall. Many went to the nearer Waveney River Centre but we pushed on to Oulton Broad, mooring in the twilight with the welcoming lights of the Wherry Hotel shimmering across the water. The stresses and concerns of the day seemed to peel away as the warm embrace of a well stocked bar sought to replace them; but they hadn’t really gone away. The concern etched into the face of the man from the Broads Authority that morning was still firmly in my mind’s eye....

One day we will cross Breydon Water like we had done that morning, go under Breydon Bridge and turn left at a brand new Great Yarmouth Flood Barrier before entering the peaceful Lower Bure.

One day....



More Chippings:  racing start  |  speeding  |  *“Code 3”  |  Great Yarmouth  |  those bridges again...  |  before Great Yarmouth  |  beyond Great Yarmouth  |  fateful moments  |  noises off  |  a year in the life  |  a week on the Broads  |  another week on the Broads  |  day trip on the Broads  |  top mooring of the season  |  a new 'Dream'...  |  a cruise with a bit of everything thrown in  |  reality beyond the 'Dream'   |  oops!  

*”Bittern Code”


PICTURE ALBUMS:  ~ Paul and Mary Afloat ~  |  Broadland Dream  |  Whatever Floats My Boat


This message was edited by readyabout on Apr-26-15 @ 10:58 AM


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littlesprite
Nov-01-2010 @ 12:08 AM                           Permalink
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Scary tale, do you write professionally or is it just a knack.

martin

how can such a sleepy paradise create such passion.

BroadAmbition
Nov-02-2010 @ 1:50 AM                           Permalink
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Well if it is a knack its a good-un.

Nice writing, enjoyed it, Tks,


Griff

'Broad Ambition' - 'Dreams do come true' - Afloat at last 06-10-07

Forum Manly Swot 30-07-10

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w-album
Nov-02-2010 @ 12:55 PM                           Permalink
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I think the title gives a clue that someone has a special skill in writing.
An excellent read - the stuff to publish a book
Liz

gramarg
Nov-02-2010 @ 8:15 PM                           Permalink
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Scary stuff- excellent read though

BITTERN CODE 42
Graham
Member of cider lovers united
Forum girly swot 18/09/09 12/02/10

readyabout
Nov-04-2010 @ 7:16 PM                           Permalink
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Thursday - Saturday, 16 - 18th  September:

The Clarkeson Factor

Although the line between recklessness and wholesome ‘boys own’ adventure must be a fine one, the television programme, Top Gear, seems to have found it and treads it nimbly and successfully. They have cleverly turned testosterone induced [laddish?] behaviour into prime time television viewing respectability. Afterall, haven’t we all broken the speed limit at some time or another? Statistics show that it is predominantly male related. Watching too many fast-car television programmes, perhaps? Or is it just the chemical make-up of the male gene that drives us, literally, towards this misdemeanour? For sophisticated animals, the human spirit can be depressingly basic at times. While, in the animal kingdom, river spawning pools, ocean feeding beds, seasonal animal hunting grounds and perennial nesting spots can be found with pin point accuracy by migrating fauna after thousands of miles of arduous journey in perfect convoy, by comparison, our competitive rivalry – especially when placed behind a car steering wheel – can be all consuming.

And isn’t driving boats just a little bit like driving cars - the same sense of power under our control? The Norfolk Broads is a world of natural tranquillity, where urban tensions are allowed to unwind in a beautifully preserved environment, where speed limits exist in single figures, where ‘road kill’ is non-existent and there is absolutely no urgency to rush headlong to the next management meeting/sales pitch/contract location – or whatever. But have we really left that tiresome but insidious competitive spirit of our self-made rat race back in the boot of the car, along with the neatly folded awning and emptied cold box?

*******


A slight cross wind helped us turn out of the finger pontoon mooring and into the narrow channel, as we carefully edged Lady Emerald out of Acle Dyke. The breeze was tinged with early autumn chill: just enough to weight the decision to keep the canopy up and the cabin warmth in. The Bure is fairly wide and straight at this point with a longish stretch at 6mph. We were feeling suitably relaxed with the relief of getting back on to the water again; so as we turned north out of the dyke, en route for Barton broad, I suppose I might have inadvertently had the revs going just a little bit more that was appropriate.

Our cares were shed like so much dry old snakeskin. We emerged sleek and shiny. The wide river beckoned. Nothing could stop us now.... There wasn’t much else around on that September afternoon; nothing to trouble us – or so we thought.

I first became aware of the low rumble of a fairly powerful engine behind us after about half a mile. I looked around with some surprise to see a big, fairly modern hire cruiser bearing down on us with a real bone in her teeth. She wasn’t closing very rapidly, though. I looked down at my rev counter and was mildly surprised to see that I was doing about 1700. A bit fast, I thought, but we were travelling comfortably, without much apparent fuss.

I supposed I was mildly irritated at having my ‘privacy’ invaded by such a modern, state-of-the-art cruiser. Stubbornly, I continued without dropping revs. The interloper slowly bore down on us. As we arrived at Thurne Mouth, I steered in a wide arc to keep to station and safely negotiate the junction; but not super-cruiser. No. He cut the turn on an almost diagonal path, heading straight for us and obviously gaining ground in the process. Soon he was just about level; and then he did something quite aggressive. He closed in so that his hull was barely two feet away. I could see the two occupants of the wheelhouse fairly clearly, now. Cans of lager were on the go and their demeanour suggested that some kind of Neanderthal behaviour would be required to win an argument with them; not really my style. No sign of Neanderthal women: cowering below, perhaps?

At this stage, Mary intervened, furious that I had stayed alongside and not dropped back. I could see that she had that certain look in her eyes that indicated that she was none too pleased; I was being pig-headed. Pride would not allow me to show fear or to capitulate: I just kept the revs going. Mary was fuming; I was going to have to be very nice to her when this was all over...

I considered my options. I could of course report them – but that would be hypocritical, since I was in the wrong, also, for by this time it was clear that we were both exceeding the speed limit. However, Neanderthal man’s behaviour was, in addition, both dangerous and threatening. We were close to the right hand bank and the distance between the two boats was so little that flow suction could have dragged us together with one lapse of concentration in steering. Moored boats that we passed must have been horrified. I gave a quick glance across and noted two things. First, both occupants were visibly surprised that I hadn’t dropped back. Second, their throttle lever was being pushed as far forward as it could go. They were going flat out. I continued to maintain a ‘five card stud’ expression – learnt the hard way years earlier – and briefly toyed with the idea of using the extra revs I had in reserve. Earlier engine trials on Breydon Water in calm conditions had produced 2100 revs with relative ease – and I’m sure I could have gone even a bit higher without complaint from the trusty Perkins, which had just had a full service. But to do that would have been to approach maximum hull speed, which for my 30’ hull would be just under about seven and a half knots; a thoroughly inefficient speed at which to travel.

I say, briefly toyed with the idea, because to do that would have just been like sinking to Neanderthal level. A bit of deft manoeuvring could have brought me ahead slightly just to prove a point, before dropping back – or I could have been really ambitious by first dropping back before overtaking them on the outside. It just wasn’t worth it. More to the point, it certainly wouldn’t have been legal. Anyway, I was getting close to the Ant turn off and my initial egotistical outrage at being ‘toyed with’ was subsiding fast. Besides, the withering looks my wife was giving me were a work of art. Later, she was to compare the incident to a couple of Felixstowe-bound duelling lorry drivers clogging up the dual carriage way on the A12 – a frustrating experience with which we were all too familiar. For now, it was time to return to being a normal human being again.

The Broads Authority invests huge amounts of money in protecting the river banks of the Broads. It is critical to the survival of the wetlands area as a wildlife sanctuary and a bird migration destination. Waves from excessive wash soften the lower part of the structure until the top finally collapses in due to the undercutting effect. Then, another piece of precious Broadlands breaks away and is gone forever. Speeding is just mindless, selfish behaviour.

I sighted the Ant turn off in the distance and throttled down, while super cruiser continued to storm up the Bure - away and out of our lives. Once in the Ant, it was like entering a different world. Gone was the anger, the pig-headedness and noise: here, in this narrow, winding river, it was quiet, slow and relaxed. We’d only had the boat a couple of weeks and this had been our first experience of aggression on the Broads. No doubt it wouldn’t be our last, but at least I would be prepared for a similar situation next time and simply drop back at the first sign of trouble.

I had wanted to take Mary to The Barton Angler - an old favourite of mine from a misspent youth – but, then, when we got to Gays Staithe and found that it had succumbed to the vagaries of twenty first century casino economics, it seemed like karma had dealt me the hand that I’d deserved...

*******


Having only had Lady E for a short time, even cruising slowly, we hadn’t really sorted out exactly what revs gave what speed. This was brought home to us a couple of days later when we were travelling through Horning after a stay at Salhouse Broad [what a magical place that is!]. I had set the revs at 1200, which seemed like a civilized speed – or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when passing a Broads Authority launch with the occupant holding up a red rimmed lollipop stating the words: SLOW DOWN!

“I can tell by your bow wave”, he said, pointing accusingly at the waterline. I felt like contestants must feel when having just been placed last in ‘Strictly Come Dancing’. Immediately I reduced the revs and apologised profusely as we passed each other.

The ignominy of it! Mary just grinned and shot me one of her ‘serves you right’ looks.

We carried on in silence, right to the end of the Horning Reach. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I espied a heron. We eyeballed each other for a few fleeting seconds, that heron and I. It was sitting on – of all things – another lollipop, this one fixed by the river bank with a big ‘4’ written on it. The majestic heron seemed to have a reproachful look in his eye; and then, I swear he actually shook his head at me!

‘Huh! Birds, what do they know?’ I muttered to myself.

Probably, everything....



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BroadAmbition
Nov-04-2010 @ 7:55 PM                           Permalink
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Wow, great stuff  Smile

To quote Don I'm lovin it


Griff

'Broad Ambition' - 'Dreams do come true' - Afloat at last 06-10-07

Forum Manly Swot 30-07-10

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goodfortune
Nov-04-2010 @ 9:28 PM                           Permalink
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Oh, readyabout, what a tale.  As Griff says, "I'm loving every line".

I'm so glad that Mary's looks and your good sense and understanding of the meaning of (power)cruising on the Broads, and the need to avoid erosion, overcame the Clarkson factor!  And to have admitted you might have been going just that little bit too fast, admirable.

And feel superior for not having allowed yourself to sink to Neanderthal...

Please, please, carry on, sir.

Lisa Smile

first "Zero Club" on the quiz 12/09/10

BITTERN CODE 15A

readyabout
Nov-15-2010 @ 7:46 PM                           Permalink
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Wednesday 20th October:

Domestic Goddess to the Rescue!

Rivers, like women, can behave unpredictably. Each has their own characteristics and resources which can be more than occasionally taken for granted - and which can often surprise. Late October on the Broads can be a time of sharp meteorological contrasts: at times, heavy, driving rain, at others, stunning low-level sunshine; you just have to be adaptable. When we had set off on a new mini-cruise the previous afternoon, it was during the latter of these classic autumnal conditions. The warm sun bathed the boat in rejuvenating sparkle as we lowered the top and donned sunglasses; the last of the summer wine, perhaps. When we arrived at Cantley, that same evening, it was brewing up to be the former; the summer wine had gone.

The ‘Reedcutter’ proved a welcoming retreat from the advancing northerlies with their imminent cold front and grey skies. As we scurried into the deserted bar, we were welcomed by a friendly landlady who was ruing the sudden collapse of the seasonal trade. Perhaps, as the ‘Lads Week’ flotilla had finally drained their glasses, packed up their darts and returned to their boats only two days before, she may have thought: 'that was the last hurrah of the season....'

Nestling at the foot of the mighty, belching sugar factory, the ‘Reedcutter’ is a haven of quiet and cosiness in a harsh, industrialised location. There is a delightful thatched top to the bar, and looking up, we noticed a superb ceiling feature of woven panels and ancient wherry pulley blocks and ropes to add to the atmosphere. The place was spotless: the flagstone floor, furniture and carefully draped curtains were all carefully tended – and there was even a carpeted section on top of the stone flooring around the darts area.

“Definitely a woman’s touch, here”, I murmured to my wife, Mary; and then, instantly regretted the remark. Mary glared back and proceeded to inform me in restrained but emphatic tones of a few matters regarding twenty first century ‘equality’ and ‘new man’ and the glaringly obvious fact that there was not a shred of evidence to support my comment; and that a man – just like myself – might well have scrubbed that place from top to bottom only that very morning!

Fortunately, the topic of conversation changed to more familiar waters for me to pilot for the rest of that evening; and the Aspall’s cider – one of our favourites – went down very well indeed. However, as we returned to Lady E in a rising wind, I did feel a little humbled by Mary’s earlier retorts. After all, I was a bit of a slacker when it came to domestic duties; I certainly couldn’t envisage myself cleaning a pub. At home, I barely knew how to operate the built-in oven, the washing machine or even how to do the ironing. The sum total of my domestic chores amounted to little more than hoovering and emptying the dishwasher. As for bed-making - well, I occasionally helped turn the mattress over....

The next day dawned bleak and blustery; rain was hitting the boat broadside on and I was grateful that we were moored on a windward quay. Flood warnings were in force and when we decided to use the remainder of the in-coming tide to make for Norwich, I found myself untying warps in gumboots sloshing around in six inches of water. The main hazard to be avoided was making sure I didn’t put my foot down the wrong side of the submerged quay heading. I was thankful for the transom step with which to clamber back on board.

It really had turned very cold and the condensation in the soft-topped wheelhouse was a problem. Kitchen paper was swiftly discarded in favour of a more practical hand towel. That soon needed constant wringing out. The warmth inside against the icy rain created an environment in which the windscreen was misting up inside almost instantly after being wiped clear. Occasionally I needed to put my head out of the side window into the driving rain just to verify for myself what lay directly ahead. Not an ideal situation. The grazing cattle on the river banks sometimes seemed to be standing in water and there couldn’t have been much more than nine inches of dyke showing in places. It was all pretty grim. Very few boats were out on the river that morning. No doubt the ‘Lad’s Flotilla’ was out there somewhere, making good use of the conditions...

There was now some sleet mixed in with rain being blown in from the north. We would soon be approaching Trowse Bridge and steering would begin to get critical as height and width took on an increased significance in the swollen river. The cold conditions were relentless as all efforts to wipe the windscreen free of condensation were irritatingly short-lived. Then, while I was in the middle of a tirade of unwarranted verbal abuse of our hapless, innocent windscreen, Mary suddenly made a dash down below. Coffee was already on the go, so it wasn’t that; seemed like she’s had an idea.... Best, wait and see. I heard her rattling around in the tool kit; the tool kit?? That was my department: a man’s province, surely? ‘What gives?’ I thought to myself.

After a few minutes, up she popped with a roll of insulating tape in one hand and her 12-volt hairdryer in the other; a hairdryer? I watched in stunned, diplomatic silence as she unravelled the flex and plugged the appliance into the 12-volt socket adjacent to the steering console. Then she taped the handle to the side of the companionway hatch, positioning the flow of warm air onto a strategic spot just behind the windscreen wiper. Within seconds, the glass begun to clear as it heated enough to prevent further localised condensation from the icy rain drops.

Eureka!

Needless to say, I gave my wife a great big kiss. We entered Norwich cautiously but safely just as the rain began to ease. According to the Broads Authority ranger on duty, Norwich Yacht Station is one of the few places on the Southern Rivers where the water never over-tops the quay. It was a relief to be in the shelter of the city and out of the exposed, windswept marshes. In the space of 24 hours the atmosphere may have turned dramatically colder, but Mary’s ingenuity had warmed up our lives enormously. Now, it was time to explore the fleshpots of Norwich – and it looked like I was going to be doing the buying!

I made a mental note-to-self: wasn’t it about time that I finally learned properly how to do the ironing?

I’m sure that my wife would teach me if I asked her nicely....


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readyabout
Nov-17-2010 @ 7:33 PM                           Permalink
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Hi Martin, Liz, Griff, Graham and Lisa,

Thank you all for your kind words. I should've acknowlwedged your comments sooner, I know. All I can say in mitigation is that the past fortnight has been a bit fraught with a few complications in the birth of our fifth grandchild. Fortunately, mother and child are now doing very well and we have just returned from an exhausting thirty six hours grandchild-minding a delinquent and very jealous two-and-a-half-year-old 'big-brother-to-be' while his anxious dad paced the lonely hospital corridors in apprehensive expectation. The bonds of family life are now more or less as they should be: the child delinquency has been minimised and the jealousy virtually eradicated....


quote:".........do you write professionally.........."

[Martin]

Only very occasionally. Professional writers produce 'to order' all the time; amateur writers produce when the mood takes them. I am an amateur. Jeremy Clarkson writes a column in The Times week in, week out - whether he's drunk, sober, glum or cheerful. I could never do that. If I do have an idea - and it sticks in my head - I feel that I have to get it down on paper in order to get it out of my system; I write because I need to rather than because I necessarily want to; either I do it, or let the idea simply decay out of my memory - which seems a shame, if the memories are pleasant or significant ones.


quote:".........the stuff to publish a book.........."

[Liz]

Thanks for the compliment - but I doubt that will ever occur. For that to happen, you need to be consistent and single-minded to a degree that is beyond the comprehension or stamina of most amateur writers. Nice idea, though...  


quote:".........feel superior for not having allowed yourself to sink to Neanderthal.........."

[Lisa]

Perhaps, but there is a fine line between rational behaviour and irrational actions. I am never complacent to believe that I have all bases completely covered all of the time. Experience is the greatest teacher.



Regards,

Paul


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