The brutality of this mock winter stopped sailing at Frampton back on
New Years Day, as previously mentioned, and the forecast for Sunday
looks worse than it did back then over Christmas. So I was worried
things were boding ill for getting the boat wet on Sunday.
Having been too ill myself to sail a week ago Sunday, it's been a whole
four weeks since I last sailed. Too long by far. Itching with cabin fever.
As it happens, the wind isn't going to stop play on Sunday afterall.
The water will.
With gale force winds set in the south, and the lake filled to brimming
(apparently 11.1m is as deep as it can go before our cup literally
overfloweth) the wind was driving the lake up over the edge and flooding
out the village. Ironically, the lane leading up to the lake from the
village green is called Watery Lane. This might be why.
Anyway, the waters were beginning to threaten the village pub, The Three
Horseshoes, so something clearly had to be done.
So they've put a double-layer of sandbags around the northern edge of
the lake, where we normally launch from. They seem to be keeping the
waters in, and the pub is saved. Sadly, looks like they'll be keeping us
out.
The Frampton Icicle 3 has been postponed to the following week, Sunday 16th.
In view of the carnage that seems to be happening elsewhere in the
country (Cornwall and South Devon appear to be taking the brunt of it)
it's really only a light penalty to pay for the Gulf Stream beating us
with her watery whip, so I can't really gripe.
Besides, a lie in on Sunday is probably not an unwelcome idea, as I've
got gigs Saturday and Sunday night.
Tomorrow night, it'll be a whole fourteen days since I last touched a
drop of alcohol.
Not a huge thing, but I have been drinking a little too much a little
too often, pretty much since I gave up smoking. About ten years ago. One
of the reasons I don't keep spirits in the house is that, given my usual
enthusiasm for indulging in any interest of mine to the excess of
whatever limit I can find, I wouldn't trust myself to be sensible.
I've often thought that the only thing that prevents me descending into
total alcoholism is the need to drive, and to otherwise operate at a
functional level throughout the day. Which is fine, we all need checks
and balances in life.
Not drinking was actually an accident. Very similar to the way I gave up
smoking all those years ago. As previously mentioned, I caught a bug.
Couldn't keep water down, let alone beer, so stopped drinking.
By the time I recovered enough to reliably start holding liquid again,
I'd been sobre for over a week. The masochist in me just wanted to know
how far I could get. And I haven't answered that question yet.
Even managed to pour my wife a couple of drinks last night after she
finished work, and not indulge in a nip myself. Woke up this morning,
disgusted and disappointed in myself for caving in and indulging, and
THEN realised that I hadn't. Took a couple of a hours and a couple of
coffees for me to actually believe it.
Wonder how far this can go. If I can make a month (24th Feb) I'll treat
myself to a bottle of Laphroaig.
Trouble is, thinking of Laphroaig now has me thinking of ale, in
particular my favourite, Innis & Gunn. And whilst it's easy to fall back
on the now acrued practice of a couple of weeks and resist swinging past
the supermarket on the way home for a couple of bottles, it does put
Friday evening in jeapordy somewhat.
The memory of a taste is a seductive thing.
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