Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.
This evening for instance, having tied off the last mooring line in the only sheltered spot in the river, with some great fear, trepidation and disappointment, it came to my notice that there was a rather large and spreading slick of diesel fuel around the stern of the boat, apparently spewing forth from the still ticking over Mr Perkins. I have been monitoring a slight weep, but this was a disaster. At that point, I began to pile anything that was combustible in a huge pile atop of our dear boat, ready to ignite it all and preparing throw myself upon it.
Fortunately the more sensible among us, turned off Mr P, and noted that the slick was still growing. It actually turned out to be a spill from further upstream, but the damage to my nervous system was done.
Some time later, with pulse still not quite returned to normal, in the village centre the photograph above presented itself. I am sure that most will note without prompting that the windows are not original, there was once a much larger opening (or hole perhaps) in the space in which they now sit. Instead of meticulously re-building the structure, in a very French way of acting out “she’ll be right”, some artisan in recent years simply painted on a replica timber structure over the new plasterwork. Perhaps the planners haven’t noticed.
Since the town isn’t at all original, having been rebuilt a mere five hundred years ago after “the fire”, in the context of half a millenium perhaps it doesn’t matter.
Mr P isn’t all that original either, and having narrowly avoided a fire of our own, perhaps a small oil leak in the context of what might have been, doesn’t matter either.
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