88. A letter to Terry ✒️ #19

Hapless boating, the sentence for shoplifting, and is Puddlegate all dried up?

Aug 09, 2023

Dear Terry,

Thank you for your recent letter, in which you waxed lyrical about – among an infinite variety of other things – messing about in boats.

You’re right, of course: narrowboat holidays, although fun, are pretty hard work. True, you could spend your hours afloat stationary and in a state of pure relaxation while enjoying the services of a canalside pub mooring on a sunny day, but I reckon the novelty of that kind of thing would wear off pretty quickly. Before long you’d be desperate for a flight of locks and a windlass to distract you from such ennui.

Your terrifying experience on the boating lake all those years ago has reminded me of a joke:

Boat hire boss, on megaphone: ‘Come in number 9, your time is up!’
Employee, to boat hire boss: ‘But we only have eight boats!’
Boat hire boss, on megaphone: ‘Are you in trouble, number 6?’

two persons riding on boat — Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash

Speaking of large expanses of water, it’s been a long time since you last reported an update on Puddlegate, the local London bus stop flood that had been making your life a misery in the early days of our correspondence. Is the water level rising again? I wouldn’t be surprised: I can barely recall the last entirely dry day, and we had word last week that with the reservoirs now brimming with water, our hosepipe ban is at last to be lifted.

If your Puddlegate puddle is now but a distant memory, kerbside watersporting activities have presumably been kiboshed. If your local council is looking for alternative leisure pursuits to offer residents in an environment sans H₂O, might I suggest you point them in this direction:

I’m a little confused by your grasp on the passage of time, Terry. You stated in your letter:

‘Do you realise we’ve been writing to each other like this for the better part of a year? You get less for shoplifting.’

For the better part of a year? Terry, we only started writing in December! I mean, I know that in mathematical terms ‘the better part of a year’ could mean a day longer than six months, but your question spiralled me into panic that we are shortly to be celebrating our one-year jubilee of letters!

There are months to go until that party!

As for the shoplifting, well, I’ve done some research (thanks, Google!). There is no minimum term listed on the Sentencing Council website for convicted shoplifters, but I have established that there is a maximum:

If the goods are worth less than £200, the maximum sentence is six months' custody.
If the goods are worth more than £200, the maximum sentence is seven years' custody.

So, what are our letters worth, who’s nicked them, and what precise valuation of our letters would result in that person being banged up for precisely – ummmm the second of August 2023 minus the first of December 2022 equals, ummmmmm – eight months?

Terry, I can’t do the maths here.

🟰🤨⁉️

Moving on… (you’re welcome):

I had a fabulous day yesterday in which I resumed my bit-by-bit walk of the South Downs Way. When Jim suggested it on Friday – while Storm Antoni was doing its best to chuck bits of branches and litres of rain against our very noisy (plastic!) conservatory roof – I thought he’d gone barmy, and made him repeat his suggestion twice in case it was the ceiling cacophony that had been causing me to mishear.

But no, the suggestion was serious! ‘I’ve seen tomorrow’s forecast!’ he told me. ‘It’s not going to rain until lunchtime!’ 🙄

Well, Terry, it was glorious. Within half an hour of setting off from where Jim had dropped me off I was so hot in the bright sunshine that I wished I was wearing shorts, and the higher I got, of course the warmer I became. On reaching the ridge I felt as if summer had started again.

Of course, with it being mid-morning on a National Trail on a Sunday in the school summer holidays it was busy up there. There were large groups of cyclists and walkers, and at one point a horse cantered towards me with a teenage girl astride it, her dad struggling to keep up on his bike.

Where the South Downs Way was joined by another path I found myself in front of a my-age couple in running gear, deep in conversation and accompanied by two floppy-eared spaniels and two labradors. That’s the thing about solo walking on a popular trail: you’re never alone for long. I was twenty or so paces ahead of the people, but the dogs, it seemed, were to be mine for that entire stretch along the ridge, and despite my self-confessed not-a-dog-person status we kept pretty easy company together. Once the two chatterboxes behind me at last broke into a run, all six of their party were soon over the brow of the next slope, and I found myself alone again.

Terry, in this glorious landscape, that was absolutely fine with me.

In your most recent letter you had set me a puzzle to solve, and I’d like to return the favour. Here’s my puzzle for you:

There is a two-word phrase that links the first sentence of this letter to a two-paragraph section within yours.
What is it?
And who is the character from history and literature to which the phrase refers?

Do let me know in the comments!

All the very best, as always,

Rebecca

If you’ve enjoyed reading this letter to Terry, please let me know by clicking the heart. Thank you! I’ll see you on Saturday for my next ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ post.

Dear Reader, I'm lost

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