Return to Poverty Rock

It's only two days before it's time to dig out that blue tarpaulin and get it flapping in the wind, place our wheelbarrow, BBQ, folding workbench, old wood, bikes and other carefully preserved bits of rusty and mouldy rubbish on the roof, put the dog on a bit of string, remove the licence disc, BW registration numbers and any identification marks, ensure that we are moored alongside others that look the same near a bridge where our car is parked where we will carefully arranged our bank side with even more bric-a-brac, stand around in intimidating groups of other bridge hoppers (for that is what we are) clutching cans of beer, ignoring other boaters (unless of course they are fellow bridge hoppers) looking like we have no respect for the canal or other boaters and that our boats are unsafe and have no BSS certificate or insurance, all just to annoy those who believe that those of us who live on our boats are scum (which of course, we are). Hours of fun. Ohhh! Those long winter nights are just going to fly by. I'm exhausted now due to the length of that first sentence.