Rosie and Jim, and the Postman

The thing about delivering post to Rosemary Sandleboth is that she is houseproud and always insists you have a look inside the narrowboat.

This generally involves shuffling around her husband Jim to view a tidy cabin. Not last Wednesday. Jim was on deck.

‘Take a look inside’, she said.

I stepped through the doorway and down 98 steps. 95 more than usual. Leading to an enormous meadow. Surrounded by forestry.

Hey, what’re you doing out in the open? There’s a Cantabular Glimp on the loose!’

The question was roared by a fat man standing at the edge of the forestry while wearing a red jumper.

‘A what?’
Never mind what, kick it in the runticles before it mushes you to flungal.’
‘Eh?’

My response wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve uttered. If I ever document what happened I’m going to change that ‘Eh?’ to ‘Excuse me sir, but you need to fully explain the doings currently transpiring within the hull of this narrowboat.’
It’d be a lie. There wouldn’t have been time. A slap split the side of my head and knocked me sideways.

‘Garrastacarratastucktel’, roared a voice.

I didn’t hang around to get a proper look, but I know it’s owner was huge, hairy, and smelled of cabbage.
My options were to run or fight.
Judging by the the slap I knew my chances of winning a brawl were low.
So I ran.
Forwards.
Left.
Right.
In a circle.

Fortunately Cantabular Glimps are slow. I made it to the stairs and onto the deck.

Jim listened carefully as I told him the story.
‘Was there a tubby fella in a red pullover there?’, he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you do what he asked?’
‘No’, I answered.

Jim nodded at Rose.
‘Good’, she said, ‘that fella knows nothing about Cantabular Glimps.’