Bread and Water

Another hot March day, hot enough to have the bread dough rising in its bowl on the table beside me, out in the garden.

This reminds me of the hot March of ’03, as I pottered around the Midlands canals in a smelly, noisy old narrow boat. By this time of the month, at just about every canal-side pub I moored by, staff or customers would see my deep tan and ask, “Been abroad for the winter?”

The only accurate reply was, “No – Watford Gap.”


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