On Tennysonesque Weather and Tricorn Hats.

Such a dark, dolorous, and desperately wet day in the dear old Shire today. I think it must have been on just such a day that Tennyson wrote:

 In a stormy east wind straining

 The pale yellow woods were waning

The broad stream in his banks complaining

Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot

~ The Lady of Shallot ~

That’s pretty close to the mark for today in the Shire. My lane, which runs downhill for about three quarters of mile, was carrying enough fast flowing water to make a river of it. I made two attempts to clear the road grids to relieve the pressure, but to little avail due to the sheer volume of water and the fact that parts of the underground drain appeared to be blocked. I gave up eventually and went for a wet walk instead, occasionally having my jeans splashed by passing vehicles sturdy enough to brave the flood. Not that it made much difference. The jeans are currently drying on the back of the sofa. (The Lady B was one of them in her big Land Rover. I wonder whether she would have braved the elements in little HT54.)

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This evening I decided to cheer myself up with a viewing of my lady of the moment singing a sea shanty. (Jenna Ortega soon slipped from the top step when I discovered that she’s really rather nondescript. You know how Emma Watson became the epitome of ordinariness after she stopped being a witch? It’s the same with Ms Ortega when she’s not being the epitome of evil girlhood.)

So, the current lady of the moment is a Russian singer and multi-instrumentalist called Alina Gingertail, and below is appended a video of her rendition of Wellerman. You might wonder why she has become the latest occupant of the top step, and that’s easy. It’s the eyes, the eyes… And the Russian accent… And the cat in the tricorn hat…

If only I could divest myself of my usual disturbing dreams and dream instead of Gorgeous Ms Gingertail, I’m sure I’d wake up in a better mood. The scenario: I’d be sitting in front of my computer when an email would drop in:

‘Greetings, Comrade Jeffrey. Come sit with me on the banks of the Moskva. Be mine tonight. I have good wodka, and when we have taken our fill I will give you a guided tour of my tattoos. You will not be disappointed.’

Actually I would because I’m not up for that sort of thing any more. History is for the learning, not the reliving. Then again, I suppose you can do whatever you like in dreams. That’s largely what they’re there for, isn’t it?