Overthinking Things?

Monday 24th July – I am escribing the first draft of this locution brew in my notebook. This nonelectronic writing method necessitated by carelessly leaving yours truly’s laptop at my campervan. A vehicle currently pitched around 70 miles as the crow flies from the Wakefield apartment where I sit.

Footnote – Although I have referenced crow flight routes above, other avian species capable of flying plumbline straight travel paths are available.

Blimey, as within the recent literary missive titled Inspiration, there I go again rabbiting on about birds… Oh well, I suppose it makes a change from, when writing articles for Ann Summers publications, crowing about rabbits.

Of course, when you read this creative meander I’ll be once again in possession of my laptop. Well, unless a Yorkshire coast based seagull has stolen my electronic device. Which, bearing in mind the feathered fella would have to break into the vehicle, then find the item buried amongst a deluge of clothing and camping accessories, is unlikely.

Which raises the question, would a seagull have the inclination or, indeed, cognitive wherewithal to implement such a daring heist?

And even if it did feel moved to risk a spell of ‘bird’ (jail) for breaking/entering and theft, what would it want (or do) with a laptop?… Pawn it for a fish and chip feast?… Hawk it (eeerrrr, I mean seagull it) for sale around the area’s less salubrious ale houses?

The one thing I can posit with certainty is if the device does end up in the hands (wings) of a pilfering gull, unlike GJ Strachan, they won’t be using it for penning prose.

Saying that, if the sea bird has the nous to override the vans locking mechanism and carry it off despite weight ratio challenges (a la the coconut shell carrying swallows in Monty Pythons Holy Grail), who knows what they are capable of.

Who am I to dismiss its capability of pecking out a vignette of infinitely more literary worth than this hokum… A notion which begs the further question, when seagulls use computer keyboards, do they tap out sentences with their beak or wings?… Perhaps, I’ll google it later… But more likely not!

Despite there being a week remaining of the pitch’s tenancy at the scenic campsite on Scarborough’s periphery, this Wednesday I will probably return the campervan back to Wakefield a few days early.

Not, I hasten to add, because of any dislike of the site; a hitherto well-appointed location with good customer facilities. On the contrary, the sights, sounds and other sensory benefits bequeathed at this idyllic spot have augmented my camping experience markedly.

No, the reason I’m erring towards an earlier than scheduled campervan return is a consequence of feeling I am spending too much time on my own at the site. 

Although committed to the wonders of campervan life, I feel I am spending too much time in solitude during inclement days. Meaning I’m returning back to my flat more frequently than I’d desire… Solitude not helped by scheduled guests bailing on me because of forecasted meteorological conditions which cause ducks to high five.

While the rest of Europe bathes and burns with temperatures of more than 30 degree Celsius, in the UK prevailing torrential rainstorms evoke thoughts that at any time Noah will float past in his ark.

As the buoyant wooden structure surges by, Noah’s heard to shout to his missus over the noise of the swell  “F*** this, I’m heading to Venice!… At least it’s warm there!… Have you brought the sun factor 25, love?”

I’m irked at being laptop bereft. So much so I have been contemplating whether it is worth the time and fuel expense to make the 140-mile round trip to retrieve the errant device… Concluding, though, it is too far to drive to merely pick up my preferred journaling instrument.

Instead appeasing myself with the eloquent 3rd person advocacy, “Patience dear Garfield… It is not long now until, like a phoenix from the ashes of deprivation, your blogs will be once again typable and publishable to a wider audience.”

Blimey, mentioning a phoenix introduces a third winged creature in this melting pot of monology. Admittedly, though, the latter only a mythological creature, who legend has it is capable of regenerating from the ashes of a previous existence.

Meandering off on yet another tangent, there are several pubs afforded the name The Phoenix. A fact which makes me wonder whether this mythological moniker is given to alehouses subject to multiple arson attacks by disaffected drinkers. Prior to their rebirth, or should I say rebuild… Well, once the insurance company paid out anyhow.

These boozers maybe located in rougher inner-city areas. Perhaps the sort where seagulls endeavour to fence stolen laptops. Incidentally, if the electronic device I’ve carelessly left unattended is being peddled in a pub called The Phoenix as we speak, I hope the bloody thing burns down with the pilfering seagull inside… Roast gull with a phoenix ash jus, anybody?!

Actually, there may be more winged creatures (directly or indirectly) touched upon within these paragraphs of this questionable tosh. After all, there could have been a wealth of feathered folk on the Noah’s ark. 

That being said, I would question whether flight capable avians needed to board the biblical character’s watercraft… I guess that would depend upon the availability and frequency of dry perches within the unforgiving ocean swell.

I’d venture, with their penchant for self-combusting, phoenixes would be welcomed aboard the lumber-built boat by Noah. No doubt, the last of the Antediluvian patriarchs concluding jeopardy introduced to him and his animal cargo by this fire-raising creature wouldn’t be one worth taking.

Maybe, though… Just may… I might be overthinking this!

Monday 31st July – As you can probably tell by the fact you are reading this (well, if you didn’t give up halfway through when I started spouting hooey about phoenixes), I am now once again in possession of my laptop. Consequently, last Monday’s frown has been turned upside down.

I have also reverted to a glass half full approach about the poor weather and loneliness borne from residing predominantly in my campervan, pitched near Scarborough on Yorkshire’s east coast. As a result, I have booked to pitch the motorhome on the same site for the month of August.

Sitting here now, sampling the visual majesty of the Yorkshire Wolds outside of my current locale, it has reinvigorated my once flagging vigour for the camping gig. My heart currently swells with brio and I have concluded alfresco living inside too bad after all.

Oh bollocks, it has just started raining again… For f***s sake… Have you any space left on that bloody ark, Noah?!

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