Apple Juice and Other Short Stories by Raymond Hopkins - HTML preview

Upstairs, if there had been any upstairs, well you know what I mean, there was a tiny area at the back of the boat where you could sit and steer.  I thought Sandra might do that, as I’m a big bloke, and I could see if I sat there, I probably wouldn’t get out until the end of the holiday, and there didn’t seem to be much fun in that, although Sandra did offer to come and feed me every few hours, but I could see she was joking again.

Then, right at the front end, there was a flat platform, perfect for sunbathing, and when Sandra turned her eyes on that, it was obvious what she was thinking.  She likes the sun, does Sandra, and it looked as though she might get a bit browner than usual, maybe even in places not normally on display, as we intended to find some quiet spots without anybody else around.

Well, that’s what we intended,  but the reality turned out to be a bit different.  Talk about Piccadilly Circus!  Honestly, the canal system is so overcrowded with holiday makers, none of which know how to handle a boat, and I include myself in that, Sandra said we might take our holiday next year on the Exeter bypass, where you tend to meet a better class of person.  It was rather nice there last year, I know, as the jams were so bad we had time to take out our picnic table and set it up on the grass verge, where we were joined by a very friendly couple from Manchester.  It seemed almost a pity to spoil the grass, as you could see it was in good condition before we had our picnic on it.  Totally untouched by the hand of man, said Sandra, to which she added that it was probably virgin on the ridiculous, but it’s a long time since she was one of those, so I’m not sure she could remember what she was talking about.

All right, Sandra, I know.  Leave the jokes to those capable of such intellectual feats.

Even