Mr Perkins part, according to Royal Mail parcel tracking, “has been passed to the overseas postal service for delivery in FRANCE.” I am not quite sure, but I think that’s a good thing on balance, although there might just well be a hint in there somewhere that we aren’t going to see it tomorrow.
So we are forced to sit here for a bit longer with our friends, doing not much but not having time to do anything more, wondering how Dave doesn’t get fed up with having nothing to repair on his boat, while Ian and I seem to be up to our elbows in tools for one reason or another. We mustn’t overdo it though, the evenings together are not conducive to retiring early.
They all swam today, the other five, in water that judging by the way my toes went blue when they were dipped in it, must have been barely above freezing.
I managed as is my custom, not to be “refreshed” as they describe it, being firmly of the belief that if there is nothing wrong with the boat, there can be no reason to go overboard, noting with some satisfaction their squeals of what sounded like vaguely like pain and definitely not ecstasy on entering the water.
Dave assured me that according to his on-board sensors the water temperature was a balmy twenty-one degrees. Perhaps there is something he can fix after all.