Thursday, 14 January 2016


Hello.  In a land where it rarely got properly light, a boat was on the canal.  It was almost as wide as the canal, and had one funnel, halfway along.  when it went past the denser part of the town, where studies and bedrooms faced the water, it would emit a hissing geyser of vapour from its funnel.  this steam would rise in puffs, and slow coils, upward, into the barely lit sky, blurring one's view of the lit rooms on the other bank.  If you had your windows shut, you were alright, as hardly any vapour would enter your room.  However, if the day had been warm, sultry, and solitary, you might have forgotten to clamp down the sash, and this is when some fumes would slither, serpent-like, under the glass.  One day, a philosophy student had been reading for most of the afternoon, when his head lolled forward just before tea, and she fell into a shallow slumber.  As she nodded, the boat came by, its signature hiss signifying imminence.  The funnel produced its vertical vapours, as an amenable breeze blew some through her chintz.  In her dream, which semi-featured the boat, and its droning and foaming, she found herself craving abnegation, abdication from life's responsibilities - her body slumped, she jolted back, upright, awake, unaware, book and lamp before her.  And she could hear the passing sound of the boat, and she made for the window, calling out through the gap, 'Come back, come back.'

But one thing you can't do on a canal is turn around.

And here is a song wot I wrote:  Snow Queen


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