It’s been some time since Mr Perkins has done anything other than behave like the well mannered old dear we’d all love him to be.
Franky had given him the usual post winter fondling. Even his (Mr P’s not Franky’s) weeping orifices had dried to a socially acceptable level, although we can never be sure that will be a permanent state of social compliance or whether he’s just having us on for a bit. By and large he’s been giving us the impression of running like a Switch watch, or at least something like a Swiss watch would be if it was powered by ancient British diesel technology.
Just why he chose this glorious morning to remind us that he’s in charge, we’ll never know.
When the time came to leave, we turned the key on the (completely refurbished and rewired last year) dashboard, to hear nothing but a single loud click.
We tried again. Click.
And again. Click.
It seems that his starter motor is starting to feel its age. In lieu of a defibrillator, a large screw driver shorted across it’s terminals had the necessary counselling effect and we were away once again bounding across the bay, running with the tide at about the speed a snail would bound if it could.
To Tholen this time, where only one of us has a memory of last year’s visit!
No comments
Post a Comment