Punting in Oxford is a centuries old tradition where foppish young lads and pretty maidens gently slide across the lazy currents of the River Isis.
But no, not us. Not The Gormans.
When we go punting on the Isis it’s world war fucking three. Pearl Harbour all over.
First off. Who punts? Well Tom won that battle fairly quickly.
Then there’s the endless stream of supportive punting technique tips from beloved siblings…
“It’s not like that you idiot!”
“Shut it ya rat!”
In fairness, Tom had a reasonable technique, most of the time but seemed to be more succesful when guiding the boat backwards.
Ria, well, this picture disproves the adage tha the camera never lies because she looks in total control. When that was a long long way from the truth.
In fact, to say she was totally crap would be to greatly gild the lily.
Punting joins the list of activities involving hand and eye co-ordination that will not be filling up swathes of her future CV.
I was peerless.
Like everything in life I do not approach punting in half measures. Gentle drifting downstream does not enter my vernacular. Thrashing the living daylights out of a human speedboat whilst acreering dangerously from bank to bank whilst taking out doting lovebirds drifting in the opposite direction does though.
“Mark you’re going to hit that tree you idiot.” was oft shouted.
The trip ended with the inevitable.
Ria accidentally splashed Tom by inadvertantly skimmming the oar too shallowly. Which triggered Vesuvius’ eruption, a flurry of retaliatory splashing and viscious snarling, returned with equal violence by Ria and that was that.
It was oh so blissful for Jeana.