Ancient instinct told us, as the year turned, that it was Boat Show time. Lovely. Anticipation built: everything new and shiny, with hundreds of bilges smelling of sawdust and GRP. Indoors, out of the rain and wind it was, for decades, a time to dream. Except that they cancelled it in this blighted Brexitacious year: not enough punters. Leaving lofty Earl’s Court, where we could actually look up at the masts, clearly wasn’t a great idea. We need to look up at masts. All those stunted mastless yachts at the Excel Centre depressed us (this may be Freudian, but we are gentlemen at YM, even those of us who are ladies, so draw a veil).
Anyway, it leaves us without a fixed point, a festival of warm indoor boat worship…
