Sunday bloody Sunday IV – The final chapter

In Sunday bloody Sunday III, not only has M had to forgo the delights of a leisurely breakfast of bacon and eggs to deal with an outbreak of rampant mould in his house, but now he’s partially destroyed his outboard motor….

After having successfully converted a perfectly good propeller into an almost useless hunk of aluminium that spun like a drunk Whirling Dervish (apologies to all offshore Dervishes – no disrespect intended), I continued on my mission to pick up my Much Better Half, have a celebratory cup of tea and hopefully enjoy some sinful delight from the local bakery (it was Sunday after all).

Approaching the Point, I noticed a small dinghy on the verge of sinking – water lapping over the transom (back bit). The owner,(not present) believed that simply putting a huge flotation device in the boat would be sufficient to ensure it didn’t sink. Of course, the said huge flotation device was in no way attached to the boat except for it being IN the boat.

SIGH. What to do. I was already late, and it’s not my fault this boat will sink. I didn’t order three weeks of rain. No one else has stopped to bail it out. It’s not my fault!

DOUBLE SIGH. Crap! I’ll have to bail it out!

Sliding my fat gut over the gunnel (side bit) I proceeded to bail out the tiny tinnie with what seemed to be a grossly inadequate bailing bucket – stupidly purchased from Nitworths to fulfil my RMS obligations so I didn’t get booked. Plastic, streamline, banana yellow and completely useless.

I considered at this point that maybe the eating of sinful treats from the local bakery may be contributing to the difficulty in bailing this vessel out. However, I quickly disregarded this as mindless self-criticism that served no useful purpose but to belittle me in front of myself. I was stressed and obviously not thinking straight.

It was evident that it would take a month of Sundays (I trust the pun is not lost on you) to empty this seemingly endless body of water out of the tinnie with a thimble as a bailing bucket. “This will go quicker if I get in the tinnie instead…”

“What is he thinking??” you’re thinking.

I hate to disappoint, but I did have the forethought to at least tie the bow (front bit) and stern (back bit) of the tinnie to the gunnel (side bit) of my craft (craft: a term I use loosely to describe the piece of shite with the bent pretzel for a prop I had the misfortune to be sailing at the time ). I then proceeded to lower my fat-gutted self into the tinnie and start bailing. After what seemed an age I finally was able to leave the vessel safe in the knowledge I had done my bit to appease the Gods of Karma and secretly trusted that someone may do the same for me one day.

Of course, I was now hopelessly late from picking up my Much Better Half and realised that my suit of armour was now well and truly tarnished. I push on regardless.

On arriving at the Point, I pick up my passenger who was all but invisible under a swag of shopping bags and packages. She alighted into the boat and I awaited the inevitable questions. However, not a word was uttered either about my tardiness or my somewhat moist attire. Instead she simply gave me a peck on the cheek and said ‘thank you for picking me up’.

Is it any wonder I call her my Much Better Half.

It seems there are angels and perhaps the Gods of Karma smiled on me after-all.

Two things for sure, living offshore is not an ordinary life and I probably didn’t need the bacon and eggs or the sinful treat with tea. (Actually, I retract that last statement – of course I need the sinful treat with tea. After all its bloody Sunday.)

Fin
By M

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