In lieu of a blog, today I include my submission for a writing group I attended yesterday. The prompt for our submissions was ‘flooded river’:-
Through my front room window, I watch water advance slowly towards the riverside bungalows neighbours and I call home. Although proceeding at a sloth-like pace it remains a a sinister sight, evoking memories of last year’s flood damage.
The carpet in my front room, bought only a few months back to replace the shagpile damaged during that previous flooding, lays in preparation for a curtailed lifespan.
Witnessing this play out making me wonder whether I should have followed my brother’s hare-brained idea after the previous incident. He offering to tarmac the front room for me, negating against constant replacement of water damaged carpeting … God only knows, though, how he would have got a steamroller through the front door.
I watched anxiously as the brook trickled threateningly towards my front door. Wondering whether the sandbags jammed on the front step would be fit for purpose at protecting against the storm induced river flow.
Bereft of sand, I have filled the linen sacks with dry pasta. You may scoff at this offbeat move, however, in my defence I was up against time. And, anyhow, who keeps a hundred weight of sand in their cupboards?
At this juncture it is a case of needs must. Although I accept there must have been more suitable water repellents in my larder than six bags of pasta penne.
Maybe dried rice, or Rice Crispies would have proved a better alternative. The latter providing me with a soothing soundscape of ‘snap’, ‘crackle’ and ‘pop’ as river water seeped through sodden bags into my hallway.
The other cereal in my food cupboard a box of Coco Pops; a cereal which would have turned the already sewage filled river water even browner.
Mulling further over my ill-conceived scheme for alternate sandbag ingredients, I can’t help wondering why the hell I have so much bloody pasta in my cupboard.
After all, I live alone and only cook a pasta dish once a week; consequently, it’d take me until doomsday to eat it all. No wonder I am lacking kitchen cupboard space, meaning I’m required to store tinned veg in the bathroom cabinet.
After the previous days deluge of biblical proportions, the nearby river broke its banks overnight. Consequently, I woke this morn to witness overflowing river water, along with a bunch of ducks in my front garden.
After I’d opened my drapes, upon seeing me through the lounge window, the ducks headed towards my closed front door. Sadly, as I had no bread with which to feed them, they didn’t hang around long… Appearing utterly indifferent towards consuming a pasta penne alternative.
If only I’d been given more notice of prospective flooding. Affording opportunity to build an ark, or perhaps an upstairs to my bungalow. Sadly, though, I missed yesterday’s flood warning. Consequently, I had neither the raw materials nor time to construct a safe place from ever creeping floods
Who am I kidding? Even if I had all the materials and time to build an ark, or upstairs extension, I did not possess the necessary DIY skillset to undertake such vast projects. A clueless highlighted during a recent bird table construction when I included pockets and lapels.
Dark grey clouds provide the landscape as I continue to monitor approaching water. Attempting to distract myself from the situation’s seriousness, I contemplate what my cargo would be if I could build and ark. Concluding, unlike Noah, I would not afford residency to two of every animal prior to setting sail.
Instead, my cargo would made up of 3 cases of Birra Moretti lager, 18 crates of Sauvignon Blanc wine, 900 Pot Noodles, 450 toilet rolls, 12 concubines and my pet hamster Reg.
Thinking about it, additionally I’ll need a steam kettle, bottled water and Calor gas hob. Otherwise, I would not have the wherewithal to cook the Pot Noodles… Such forgetfulness no doubt leading I undergo the same fate as the protagonists in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s iconic poem ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’. A sonnet including the line “Water, water everywhere and not a kettle to hydrate my Pot Noodles… Or at least it would in my version.
As I write, eddying waves continue their odyssey towards my front door at a seemingly increased pace. Like my middle-aged prostate during the night, there seemed absolutely nothing I can do to stop the water flow.
In the distance a group of rescuers in dinghys have appeared higher up the street. The seven or eight individuals bedecked in Hi-Viz jackets offering residents opportunity for sanctuary upon higher ground.
Monitoring ongoing rescue attempts, I see next door neighbour George arguing with one of the folks attempting to move him to a safer location. The fella in his dotage, a curmudgeon of the highest order, appearing reticent to board the rescue boat, or even don the life jacket the attending support crew insisted he adorned.
Eavesdropping through my open front window, I hear the elderly chap insist he will not leave his house until Homes Under the Hammer finishes on TV… Hearing this stubbornness leading to notions that if Georgie Boy gets his wish Homes Under the Hammer will be followed by owning a home under the water!
Nosing further I heard one frustrated rescue worker, fed up with jeopardising his own safety during protracted negotiations with the old man, rueing the fact a taser was not amongst the teams negotiating arsenal.
Two gents in Hi-Viz jackets have now entered my garden through a metal front gate. Avoiding treading in the newly formed pond in the yard, they head purposefully towards my front door.
Leaving the living room, I wander down the corridor, past my shrine to TV chef Anthony Worrell-Thompson, opening the door to greet the two-gentleman concerned.
Knowing I would not be able to stay in my property until the water level stops rising, I asked the dynamic duo.“Is it my turn to be evacuated now?”
“When we’ve persuaded the old fella next door to leave his property.” The younger of the two fellas proffered.
“Oh, ok… How can I help you fellas then?’
“You don’t happen to have a taser do you?!”
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