We’re from Australia. We’re used to the heat. Everyone tells us that, so why is it that with the fourth day in the mid thirties in a row, we have decided that it’s just as easy to keep going than it is to stay moored?
Instead of ten kilometres planned for today, we did forty. There’s a little place we know with room for just two boats and we were set for an afternoon shade. No one ever goes there. Except for today. So we ended up hot and bothered across the river baking under the setting sun in the reflected glare of the stone embankment with the half dozen or so others who weren’t here at sunrise to get the good spot.
Mr Perkins too is protesting in his own disgusting way. Dirty old thing that he is, he’s once again leaking from both ends. Despite having his snozz wiped regularly and his nuts jiggled from time to time, fuel seems to be escaping from somewhere, and oil, well the less said about oil the better. He’s not missing a beat it must be said, so for that we must be thankful, perhaps it’s just withdrawal symptoms since he stopped smoking.
It’s ok though, we know that in the cool of the early morning we’ll wake under a cloudless sky, and look back beneath the bridge at the others in “our” spot among the trees, and wonder what the fuss was about.
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