26th September - Messing about in boats

This week has been so busy work-wise, that it passed in a flurry and left me with withdrawal symptoms for our girl once more. I pined her chunky shape that skinny boat owners are so prejudiced against, and longed for her equally wide and comforting sofa.

I sighed with satisfaction yesterday when I was relieved of such longing by watching half-a-million pounds worth of boats whizzing up the Thames at Pangbourne.

After working in Reading in the morning, it was only right to grab some snacks from the local Co-Op and sit beside the river. For us, there's no getting away from the canal, or an adjoining river. We just love it too much. Our internal sat-navs are set as 'canal' by default destination. You have reached your destination - moor up.

No matter where you are, whether by a river or a medium-sized puddle, even the hint of a rustle of a carrier bag can summon ducks from half a mile away, and we were surrounded by more than a dozen of them within seconds as we sat down on a bench to eat. We quickly scoffed down several muffins before waving the paper cases at them in surrender. They frowned in utter disgust - if you've never seen a disgusted duck, picture it as Mr Bean eyeing up something he'd never eaten before. You'll quickly discover ducks do in fact have eyebrows.

 

Thankfully, at that moment a lady with a child and a baby in a pram saved us from possible disaster by throwing a loaf of bread at them. A marvellous shot indeed, especially when you have a pram in one hand and a child in the other.

A crane chugged along nearby, coughing out exhaust fumes over the river as it turned to work on the newly-refurbished bridge which stood out, lily-white like a pair of lacy underpants across the water. Boats roared by underneath, diving in and out of the lock, creating bow waves that could rival the Severn Bore. Fortunately, the ducks had remembered to take their seasick tablets the morning prior and rocked about on the waves with only a hint of green around their beaks. Or maybe that was the male ones. Either way, they still looked green.

The entertainment of the afternoon got even more interesting as a group of children came out of the activity centre nearby to dabble about in the colourful kayaks nestled on the river bank. We watched, a chocolate bar in hand and intrigued, as the teacher in charge told them to throw their paddles in the water, then 'go fetch' in the kayaks. My face was just as confused as theirs. Perhaps the teacher was an ex dog trainer. That would explain a lot.

After a few minutes, the children seemed to get a better grasp of what was needed to be done, and were happily scrabbling around in the water using their hands as propulsion. I only hope they remembered to take their seasick tablets before the next boat came along.

Mum has been busy this week painting the inside of our girl (I've yet to see it), and packing mugs for the weekend's 'tea on the boat' session. She always packs a spare in case someone happens to drop by.

 

I dread to think if two people dying of 'tea thirst' dropped in. One of us would have to share, and it would NOT be me. No-one else likes chamomile tea, anyway, so I have the upper-hand in these matters.

 

Not being the sharing type, I make it an absolute essential to deliberately forget to take the biscuit jar to the boat each week, instead, eating them all at home when no-one's looking. It wasn't me.

 

  

If you read that bit, don't tell Mum, she doesn't know who it is yet.

25 September - October Special available in Towpath Talk

20th September - All in the same boat

The last few days have been exceptionally humid and warm for Autumn, bringing with them an invasion of daddy long legs which stick themselves everywhere from the ceiling to the shower and rudely stare at you through windows. Goodness knows how they don't slide off.

Signwriter Rob  (one of our boaty neighbours) apparently stuck himself in a similar fashion upside down on a marina jetty the previous night during a horrific electrical storm, hoping to catch a photograph of it overhead. I did some Google research regarding lightning protection on vessels recently, about how having a wired mast can create a 'cone of protection'. It didn't include a chapter about lying spread-eagled next to your boat with your arms in the air.

Today, the air was still and muggy with no hint of sun, (or lightning, thankfully) and we left the marina for a day trip with my Uncle and Auntie plus their two friends. We apologised for the state of the kitchen which currently houses half a tonne of cleaning materials, paintbrushes, sugar soap, kitchen paper and goodness knows what else on the work tops. How the kitchen units are still standing, I'm unsure. Our family waved their hands and dismissed it, more interested in how the sofa got through the front doors. Everyone asks that. Even DFS doesn't know.

The minute we were out on the cut we met Paint Dave who had wandered all over the place and was in a pickle with his boat. We tried to negotiate to go around him the normal way (on the right-hand side), but after several hand signals and some confusion we had to go around him the opposite way. Once we got closer we realised he was being towed along by a rope, whilst he punted merrily along almost on the verge of singing about cornettos. For a moment I thought we'd accidentally come out of the wrong marina entrance and ended up in Venice.

Paint Dave grinned at us. 'Engine blew up.' We sailed by, pulling air rapidly through our teeth with a wince. Engines are costly problems. 'At least I'm going slow enough so you can admire my paintwork!' He smiled again and carried on punting.

It must be something to do with all the power required to keep his chillies and tomatoes warm in his hydroponics bay at the front of the boat. Either that or he decided to go one step further into space age technology and attempt a moon landing. Horsepower isn't designed for getting into orbit.

A fat boat behind him became terrified at finding themselves on the wrong side of the canal, confronted with another fat boat coming at them. We raised an eyebrow and looked closer. It was a Holiday Fat Boat, or HFB as we like to call them.

These sorts are so buttered up by the free chocolates, champagne and the on-board jacuzzi (yes, you heard, JACUZZI) bubbles that they fear everything that comes in the opposite direction, including their own farts. We smiled at them as we passed, raising our free builders tea and rusty windlass, feeling really hard. Bubbles? Pah!

Around the corner were two more Daves, moored up together. Glastonbury Dave and 'Al' right Al' Dave were snuggled up facing opposite directions. Perhaps they'd had a row, who knows. The direction your boat faces your neighbours says a lot about you, you know.

The journey onwards to the locks was relatively calm, and we arrived at the first in the flight with a hoard of gongoozlers staring as if they had never seen anything wider than 6ft before.

'Will you fit in there?' Asked an Australian.

I looked back at our girl, realising at the same time that everyone on board was wearing blue to match. We looked like a serious team effort.

'Only just', I replied.

The Australian looked concerned. They don't have canals down under because all the water would slide off, so they have good reason to worry.

One gongoozler was elated to see how a lock worked, as they'd never seen one in action before. Another looked horrified at my Uncle's bum cleavage, which naughtily revealed itself after strenuous effort to shut a stiff gate. That'll teach them to stare.

Someone else commented how clever locks are and that they could only be designed by a woman. Last time I looked I'm sure John Rennie was a man. Either that or Wikipedia has got serious problems with its image database.

My Uncle and Auntie's friends asked how you tell when a lock gate is ready.

'Sit on it and you'll feel it lift under you. That sounds a bit rude, doesn't it?'

You can take that phrase however you want to, I'm saying nothing.

Once we got to the final lock to turn around, we got hijacked on the way out, and a little steamer boat overtook Dad and shot into the lock. Within seconds, another boat wanted to come down. It looked as though we would be there for the day. Having a fat boat means you cannot share with anyone (I don't like sharing, anyway), and hence you end up standing there doing the lock three times over before you can enter it yourself. And being late for lunch. And desperate for a pint and a pee (not at the same time, of course).

We even caught up the steamer boat in our earnest. The gentleman on there kindly held the gate open for us, and I congratulated him for not being racist against fat boats like everyone else seems to be. I didn't say it to his face of course - I just smiled and waved at him whilst he replaced his chimney after losing it in a bush.

Onwards we sailed before mooring up, and met our friend Terry the Paint - you guessed it, he paints. Boats, that is, not canvases.

My Uncle thought it would be amusing to give him a nudge with our girl as we passed and see if he could get Terry covered in paint. Amazingly, every time we see Terry, he never has a spot of paint on him. If I paint, I have more on me than I do anywhere else. Either he uses a magical brush, or I have an excitable twitch, one or the other.

A few gongoozlers strung around our girl, again bemused by her enormity. It triggered off a row between Mum and a strange fellow who was absolutely certain our girl was bigger than 12ft and INSISTED it was so. Mum was almost tempted to get the tape measure out to prove it. The chap must have the same problem with eating - his eyes being bigger than his belly.

Being late for lunch and all that, we dashed off to the pub, arriving panting at the bar. When lunch came to our table, I was intrigued that my Auntie's naan bread looked uncannily like a bicycle seat. Apparently it tasted like one too, but thankfully everything else was fine apart from the sausages. They were so overdone that throwing them at a duck might kill it, so I left them on the side of the plate so that the chef could used them to catch some ducks for his specials board. I hope he's a better thrower than Mum, or he might kill himself instead.

After pudding, we whisked back up to the canal and began the journey back to the marina. A skinny boat was having trouble staying moored, so we passed her gingerly whilst a kind gongoozler tied her back up again. Unfortunately, even on tick over, our passing was enough to suck it back out into the canal again where it drifted across like a closing gate. The poor thing looked terrified.

We left the skinny boat sobbing whilst someone else on the towpath came to her aid, and continued onwards, my Uncle steering our girl with a big grin past some fishermen. I've heard that coarse fishing isn't to do with the type of fish. It's actually the type of language a fisherman uses.

 A friend of mine taught me how to deal with this (not that I EVER will use this technique). He revved up his engine so much that a tidal wave from the rear of the boat washed the fishermen and their gear across the towpath.

Don't try this at home, and do not blame this blog for any silly ideas you might have regarding fishermen. In general, they're very nice. Even if their smile looks as though they might be constipated - they probably are, after holding in their arse muscles, just in case they miss something when they go.

Back in the marina, our boaty friends waved us in and we were home, amongst the protection of fat boat corner. Being in the marina is great and everyone is on the same level, or, excuse the pun, 'in the same boat.' Our girl rested in her mooring whilst we chatted away the hours with a cup of tea, reminiscing of our day, and the light faded. Oh such a pleasure to go out on a fat boat.

14th September - The Wild West

Going out on our girl is always great fun, but today it was made even more so by the presence of my brother and his lovely lady friend.

Before they got on the boat I handed them a paintbrush in a traditional ceremony. New guests have to wield the paintbrush with honour, that any scratches they make whilst driving the boat, must be painted over before leaving. If it's minus ten degrees, then as our guest, you'll have a long wait before going home.

They were both overawed by the size of the interior, squealing in excitement over how the bathroom was bigger than the one in they had in their flat. We apologised for the state of the unpapered walls and torn-out kitchen (the W word has been keeping us all increasingly busy lately). My brother's eyes fixed on the sofa and his face turned from thought into bemusement.

'How did you get THAT sofa through THAT door?' He pointed at the small front doorway and we turned to look. It's a jolly good question. As the sofa was there when we bought the boat, how they previous owners got it on, I'll never know. Perhaps DFS know the answer. I'll ring their customer service line in the morning and give them something to scratch their heads about.

I dread to think if we have to take it out one day. Either the sofa or the boat will have to be cut in half, whichever is easiest. I know a few dogs that love a good chew on some leather - that'll sort it.

As we left the marina, we waved to one of our boaty friends who was frantically cleaning his golf buggy, a big grin on his face. I looked around, but couldn't see a golf course. Crazy golf, perhaps, with an extra large pond, a bridge and a few open windows as targets (the washing lines are great, especially when lined with nick nacks. If you hit a sock you score 100. A bikini 200. And briefs, well, that's up to the player to decide the score).

Out on the canal, we were met by an armada of boats travelling the opposite direction, like some mass evacuation from a disaster scene. We smiled politely at each one, only to look up the canal and see another on approach. By the eleventh boat, our smile was forced by sheer wind as our buttocks clenched on approach to the narrow section.

For the first time, we passed another fat boat, and our girl leaned towards her, eager to exchange a greeting. It was a little too eager for our liking, and we pulled her to the bank a little tighter to allow the other boat to pass without fear of harassment. We smiled, barely a hair's breadth away, and continued to the bridge ahead, where yet more boats passed.

As we neared the entrance of the curved brickwork, another appeared for a showdown. Picture a Wild West scene, fingers tapping on tillers, eyes squinting to see who was driving, the other hand revving the engine (with another eye squint, for effect of course). The narrowboat ahead crumbled and pulled over out of the way, quivering as we passed with barely a fag paper between us to spare. We said thank you and continued, leaving the poor thing refusing to continue for its skipper, trapped in the mud. We watched, sailing by as the people on board conjured poles out of thin air and started to push. Still their boat wouldn't budge. They were holiday makers after all. They needed the experience.

Just as we thought they might be stuck for the day and we would have to give them a hand, they were off again, their vessel shaken, but not stalled.

Finally, we reached our destination for lunch and we paused to moor behind a skinny boat which delighted in revealing all the places it had been with an array of brass badges attached to the back doors. My brother saw things from our angle and laughed aloud at the size of their washing machine. 'Just look how teeny weeny that is!' I looked at it and couldn't help but laugh myself. It would just about do one pair of smalls at a time. If there were two of you on board with dirty underwear, it would be a disaster leading to an outbreak of civil war (big things start with something small, you know).

We ate lunch and pudding at the pub and strolled back to our girl, patting her and reminding ourselves how lovely she is size-wise. People say boys like a bit of booty. I'm not a boy, but when it comes to fat boats, a little more booty is certainly better than them skinny things. (Don't call me politically incorrect, remember, I did used to own one of those, and I did love her). Sniff.

We travelled downstream towards the swing bridge and passed Paint Dave and Glastonbury Dave's boats. If all the Daves we know all moored up together, there would be no issue in remembering anyone's name. Just shout 'morning Dave!' and you'll never get it wrong. It seems 99% of the Daves I know live on the canal. Perhaps it's something to do with the name, who knows.

Dad turned our girl round in a flash, and got blown across the canal whilst I shut the bridge. Our girl wedged herself across the cut, so that our bow ended up right at a table on the towpath where two boaters were eating lunch. We grinned at them hopefully like strange ducks eyeing up what might be coming, but they simply raised their eyebrows and thought we were lunatics (it was stamped on their foreheads).

The journey back to the marina was wrought with even more skinny boats in the way (bless them), and even our marina managers who had sneaked out for a week on their own boat (I don't blame them) but we made it back in time to the marina entrance to avoid the lift bridge coming down as a car pulled up. We practically screamed 'whatever you do, don't put it down now!' in our heads to the people in the car. Either they saw us or read our minds, but thankfully, they decided not to drop it as we went underneath. 

Safely back in her mooring, we tucked our girl in bed and my brother drove us home, smiling as he passed the other moored boats.

After an exciting day, it was only right to sit in front of the telly at home to wind down before the onset of work in the coming week. The trouble is, when you have a boat obsession, everything is seen from a canal perspective. At the London Palladium, two men danced on stage behind bath towels hiding their wares, and I had a vision of this happening on a roof of a boat. The audience on the opposite bank would have an interesting view, for sure. Especially as boats don't normally have baths, hence the lack of bath towels. A flannel dance would be fun, I say, tut, tut.

  

7th September - Just for Fun

Hooray for no breeze and a marvellously still day for going out boat tripping. This morning we took off from our mooring to get to know the canal a little better aboard our girl, who today, behaved herself very well, with no naughty leaks or toilet problems.

Even the swans and ducks were still alive after consuming yesterday's Shreddies and delighted in eating half a box of Crunchy Nut as we left the marina today.

Ducks don't have teeth, so if you want a laugh, throw some Crunchy Nut at them, and watch their despair in trying to chew them. You can blame evolution for that one, not me.

The first part of the journey went well, and, pulling up at the swing bridge we decided to press pause and have a cuppa. One of our friends (another Dave) was moored behind us and came over for a chat.

We know so many Daves on the canal, including Glastonbury Dave, Solar Dave, Engineer Dave, Paint Dave and 'al' right Al' (he calls Dad Al') Dave, that I don't think my brain or Dad's phone book could store any more variations on that theme. My nickname at school was Dave. Lord only knows why.

This Dave (paint Dave) came over to admire our girl's glossy roof and chat paint with Dad. Paint Dave is very space-age modern with his own hydroponics bay at the front of his boat with green leaves poking out of the air vents on the side. We questioned the 'bushiness' and he grinned. 'I grow tomatoes and chillies - really hot chillies. Do you like them?' I shook my head. Last time I had chillies I had at least ten pints of water next to me to wash it down with. And that was only the mild version.

Paint Dave patted the roof again. 'She's big, isn't she? She's like an aircraft carrier!'
Looks like next year we'll be painting a runway on top, in case the Navy need to practice inland waterway landings.

I'm sure our boat will be the butt (yes, big arse) of oversized jokes for months.

Kindly, Dave opened the swingbridge and we carried on, keen to get through the set of locks and down to the pub. I sniggered at a narrowboat behind us that used a bow thruster to manoeuvre away from the drop off point. We've driven in 40mph winds and never felt the urge to use one. A bit of welly usually does the job. And a bump or two.

Before we reached the pub, Dad turned around above the final lock, whilst Mum clung to the TV aerial, desperately trying to stop the low-hanging willow from pinching her only link with Emmerdale. Never get between Mum and Emmerdale, it's dangerous, especially if the aerial is within reach.

Dad reversed into the lock, slightly disorientated at the peculiar sensation of using a lock back-to-front. Remarkably, he even reversed the boat into a mooring right outside the pub (you don't need to do it twice if there's a drink at the end of it). He asked me to catch the rope on the bank and I did so with my teeth, the rope landing smack into my mouth. Dad asked me to catch it - he just neglected to say which body part I needed to use.

Shortly after mooring, Mum dished up a picnic lunch, and we sat out on the bow in front of the other punters who looked on as we ate in front of them, raising our drinks (from the pub, of course) into the air. Cheers!

There's nothing better than your own personal seat at the pub and your own decent dinner - no wonder the punters looked envious and disappointed when their dinner came out half an hour later. I'm not actually sure if we were allowed to do this in full view, but we did it anyway. Just for fun.

Our girl creaked on her mooring as if she had a bad case of wind, rushing backwards and forwards as boats flicked by in and out of the locks past her. The willow we were next to patted us on the head and got tangled in our rice puddings and jelly pots. We forgot to bring spoons with us (limited utensils, you see). Try eating jelly with a fork. It's not funny. Especially in front of others.

As I was about to tackle mine, the willow shuddered and a strange chap walked over to say he liked the name of our boat. He was dressed in bright colours and wore a leather pouch around his neck, which, Dad being naturally curious, asked what it was. Apparently it was an amulet to keep nasty things like ghosts and ghouls away. We smiled sweetly at him and he disappeared, then rematerialised twenty minutes later and told us that the willow above us was rattling its leaves, so it was going to rain that afternoon.

Dad shook his head. 'Nah, dry all afternoon.'

The man said that trees don't lie. Fortunately this one did and it stayed dry.

We took charge back to the locks on our girl (after returning the pub glasses of course, don't accuse me of stealing them) and headed home. I did consider perhaps borrowing some spoons long-term though.

A less-experienced set of narrowboaters asked if they could share the first lock with us. We raised our eyebrows and looked at them like one would eye up a strange beetle's behaviour under a magnifying glass, heads tilted to one side.

'You'll only have a few inches.'

They looked back, confused. 'That'll be okay, we don't mind.'

They didn't understand that we weren't on about the space in the center of the lock you would normally have between two skinny boats.

'No, we mean, literally, you'll only have a couple of inches, and you're just a bit wider than that.'

Their faces sank, then they realised their mistake and giggled. It's impossible to be grumpy on the canal, even if you get it wrong.

Mum isn't fond of locks, so spent her time in each one as we went home sanding the railing in the kitchen to take her mind off of it, and ended up sanding off all the varnish in fear. I dread to think what might have happened if we had ascended Caen Hill Flight today. There wouldn't be a railing left.

Dad let me take control of the helm as we neared the marina, and two cyclists passed. One nearly fell off his bike doing a double take. 'Bloody hell, look, there's a girl driving that boat. That must take some steering!' I just smiled back. Little did they know that actually, it doesn't take much steering and it's easier than driving a car. For me, anyway. You haven't seen my driving yet. Spacial awareness can be a bit of an issue though. Apparently men don't think us women can park a car. Well guess what, I can park a fat boat - BEAT THAT.

At least on the canal everyone gets out of your way if you have a fat boat (don't worry, I always say thank you). Cue sarcastic wicked laugh.

Even fat boats get stuck in the mud, however, and under a bridge our girl's sixth sense alarmed her temporarily and she refused to budge, her propeller stirring up blankets of brown from the deep as if she had crapped herself in fear. I nearly did, forgetting that the gear shaft has more than one forward point and it could go faster. With a sigh of relief, our girl squeezed through the bridge and we made our way back to her mooring in the marina.

We stopped, exhausted and tied her up, patting her and emptying the other half of the crunchy nut box into an excited fray of swans who now turn their noses up at bread offerings. Sugar rocks. Bread's boring.

We patted our girl once more and left her cuddled up to the other fat boats, once again amongst her own kind and without discrimination amongst those other skinny boats. Bless her.

6th September - Just in Case

We got to the marina extra early this morning in anticipation of engineer Dave's arrival. As we drove around the corner to our parking space we noticed a van next door that looked suspiciously like Dave's, with a figure huddled in the back and a little brown and white grinning dog in the front. How on earth he got in the marina without the gate code, we'll never know. Perhaps he was dropped off en route after the NATO summit by a chopper and airlifted in, like a scene from James Bond, Mr Obama giving him the thumbs up as Dave's dog's jaws were finally detached from his trouser leg.

The dog barked and I came back to reality. Perhaps he just parked up, waited and followed someone else in the gate, ramming them up the arse to get a move on.

He grinned and came inside our boat to fix the leaky radiator. Within minutes, all was sorted and the tea came to the boil - tea is a luxury when all you have is a toaster and a pair of rubber gloves that make up your kitchen utensils.

We all hovered in the living room, eyeing up the effects of the naked walls, now without carpet. Ugly paper scrapings glared back at us, until Mum discovered we're missing some trims, which Dave will source for us. He said he'll bring his nail gun, and Dad nearly choked on his tea.

'What, so the nails go through the side of the boat?!'

Dave thought for a minute.

'I'll make sure to bring the short nails, just in case.'

That's some nail gun. I vote for standing on the other side of the marina when Dave does this, you know, just in case.

All done and dusted, Dave was off in a flash, and I grabbed a stool to watch Mum Hoover the boat - our new Hoover is a most complicated beast with a wheel in each corner and two holes. One to puff, one to blow. Instead of hoovering, Mum pressed the on switch and we were nearly blasted through the front doors.

After setting up a defensive barrage of a pile of books, I sat behind the doorframe on the bow, fingers in ears and counting down. Anyone who walked by on the jetty at that point walked even faster for fear of stopping to find out what was going on, or even worse, being signed up to a strange form of boat warfare.

Boringly, nothing actually happened and the Hoover functioned normally, sucking the floor to death. No wonder there's a couple of planks missing here and there.

The boredom was soon replaced by horror, as Dad returned from the toilet looking flushed, I mean, FLUSTERED, slip of the tongue, wringing his hands.

The macerator had done to him what was (and still is) my worst nightmare. It refused to flush. And it wasn't meant as an ordinary or Eco flush, either. You get the gist. We tried everything. Plugging in, then unplugging the shoreline, checking the inverter, turning it off then on again like a Windows PC (that logic doesn't work on boats I discovered) and pressing Eco several times. Just in case. I couldn't find Ctrl + Alt + Delete either, so Dad wandered off in search of someone useful in the marina who told us to check the pop out trip switch.

YOU WHAT?

The pop out trip switch.

Oh. That.

The strange round thing that I always wondered about next to the switch board. As our switch board isn't labelled (except for a pencil mark on 90% of them saying 'loo' on the wood next to it), we've now discovered which switch is actually relevant. It's the 'turd one down.

I mean third, ahem.

Dad looked delighted that the toilet came back to life and disposed of any evidence. We are quiet creatures that don't mind discussing other people's toilet humour, but prefer to keep our own, well - our own. Unlike the people who walk by on the jetties with their cassette toilet in a wheelbarrow, which sets off Mum and I into fits of giggles every time. You just don't know where to put your face when someone walks by with their toilet. Should you say good morning? I know I have a damn job saying that with a straight face, that's for sure.

Mum gave me a huge family sized box of Shreddies this morning, and, hugging them with delight, I made my way to the back of the boat to feed the swans. This giant, vitamin and fibre-rich pack didn't last long between four swans and I managed to dispose of the entire box with them. They were, however, slightly despondent at the lack of milk, but enjoyed catching the hole-studded flakes that sank into the murky depths.

One day they'll dredge the marina and find that the entire basin is constructed from just Shreddies alone.

I'll have to ask Nestle if they can hurry their Nannas up to knit more, especially at the rate these swans eat them. I know just how explosive fibre-wise one spoonful of these cereals can be, and I'd class them as dangerous to the people around you if eaten in vast quantities.  Imagine what fun the swans will have tomorrow, propelling themselves around without the need for flight. Stuff Red Bull - with Shreddies you don't need wings.

I brushed off the remaining crumbs from the back of the boat and watched the swans chase each other around in a sugar-fuelled frenzy. At least they were happy.

A most entertaining thing is to throw a Shreddie at a swan and see if it lands on their back. If it doesn't, it bounces off with the most satisfying 'pop', which sounds like the swans are made from a crispy coated shell with a hollow inner. When it reached that point, you could tell I was hungry.

Super Dad came back from the marina shop with a packet of digestives and two bars of chocolate to keep us going whilst he watched the motor racing inside the boat. Mum and I sat outside, feeling slightly buttered up. It was a tasty lunch, though.

After a pleasant morning of lounging and lunching, we got up to leave and prepare for our trip out on the canal tomorrow. When I looked at the roof, I realised something. The colour is all well and good to dazzle narrow boaters coming the other way - but it also does the same thing to the skipper. It's such a glossy cream that the International Space Station could see us in the dark. And still get a good photo. Uh, oh. Sunglasses required.

 

4th September - Foul Play

There was me today, sat minding my own business at my desk at work, when an email popped up on the screen. From the marina. To dog owners. Perhaps there was a new fashion craze with dog jumpers I should know about. Click.

Apparently there's been a lot of dog owners not picking up their dogs mess (to put it politely), and the warning came. Click. 'If you are caught in the act, you will be removed from the marina with immediate effect'. I'm not sure if that is meant to be aimed at the dog or the owner - either way, it should be picked up. It's not nice for us, or the marina managers, especially if your boat has cream carpets - and I did wonder about the funny stains on our mattress in the cabin.

If my dog crouched at the marina, there would be a disastrous effect, the equivalent of a Hiroshima bomb in dogs mess. We need bin liners and shovels for our dog, being a Great Dane and all that. It's a good job we ask the dog to hold it in. Her arse muscles are like iron after seven years of training where best NOT to go. Hence the message has got nothing to do with us, but I stored the email anyway so I could remember to write this later.

Dad's been to the boat today and discovered that now, after the leaky radiator was kindly fixed by engineer Dave yesterday, the other radiator is now leaking, so Dave will have to come back again on Saturday - he practically lives with us now. Soon he'll be keeping his milk in our gas hatch and mars bars in the bathroom.

The ceiling has also been fixed and now remains in place waiting for Mum to start painting - the green test swatches next to the window look like a modern piece of art. There may just end up a protest to protect them as a valuable piece of work by Banksy fans, so there could be some trouble before we get that far. If a rich American wants to offer us a few million for it, then crikey, it's staying there. They can scrape it off and we'll keep the boat and the money - sounds like a bargain to me.

There's more plans to continue renovations at the weekend and the hint of a trip out - for now though, it's back to work. The weekend can't come soon enough.

2nd September - A Simple Life

It feels like an eon since I last saw the boat, and yet, it was only a couple of days ago. Perhaps it seems that way because we all feel like we've been locked in the village stocks with bucket loads of tomatoes and other rotten veg thrown at us lately, with work issues. Life is so mixed-up, and tonight, Dad and I decided to take a trip up to the marina to see the boat. As we entered, we encountered people happily sat on benches together, or on the back of boats, smiling as we drove past to our allotted parking spot. It's a whole different world on the canal - much more peaceful, for a start.

Dad's first job of the evening was to check the radiators, as one of which had come loose from the wall whilst he pulled the carpet out from behind it earlier today - oops. Hence the pile of paint tins, stools and a miniature step ladder propped against it to keep it upright and stop it from leaking. Thankfully, engineer Dave is due tomorrow to take a look with his trusty bag of useful shite. Apparently, he is fuelled by a pint of milk and a Mars Bar each morning. If that can get you through hammering in 70 posts in a field with a tool that is half as heavy as a human, then I'm all for it - bring it on! It might help me become less sarcastic.

Dad stared wistfully at the roof, and within a few seconds, whipped out a roller and paint tin and slapped on another coat. One whiff and I was high as a kite, wandering off with a big grin on my face to feed the swans at the back of the boat. They grunted and snorted in excitement of a treat, whilst every duck in the marina took to the air and landed in arrow formations behind them, carefully avoiding the long white necks with military precision. There's something highly amusing about seeing a duck half-raising from the water, with its neck stretched and underside of its face and beak showing. I'm not quite sure what it is yet, but every time it makes me laugh. Either that or it's the smell of the epoxy-based paint, which is enough to make even the most sober turn hysterical.

The view tonight was excellent - long shadows, rolling hills, people arriving back to their boats fresh from work, the moon gently rising in the pale blue sky. Everything was calm and perfect. Dad finished the back end of the boat whilst I watched the swans preening and flapping their wings. Before long, Dad had finished and we went inside to clean up. I didn't need to wear a watch, as the neighbour's rear cratch has the most almighty clock inside that could rival Big Ben. From two moorings away I could easily see the second hand in its domed face. They are rather kind to point it in our direction, a signal as if to say that time is ticking away permanently - oh yes, and Emmerdale is on at seven.

I watched a couple walk past to their boat with huge grins on their faces (it could only be the smell of the paint) carrying their shopping and clambering on board. Life is so simple here.

Before long, it was time to leave, and, after receiving several missed calls from a boating friend who constantly presses the letter A in his pocket, we packed up and said goodnight to our girl, eagerly looking forward to next time.

30th August - Half Cut

Today started off bright and early. On the way to the boat to meet our engineer friend, Dave, Dad and I conveniently arrived at the set of traffic lights at the same time as him. Perfection (except the lights were red for him and he had to watch us wave merrily as we passed). And the cherry on the cake - sunshine, hoorah!

Whilst Dave tackled the bilge pump from last time, I fed the swans and ducks that clustered around the back of the boat. All they had to hear was a rustle of a bread bag and that was it. It was like watching an aquatic scene from the film the birds in slow-mo, the swans rearing up out of the water to snatch slices and their broad bodies splashing back like monsters from the deep (pretty monsters). They snorted indignantly as I threw the remaining crumbs over them, shaking my head. 'No more, sorry.' I have no idea why people call them mute swans, as they seem to have plenty to say if you refuse to feed them. Even if it's on the grounds that you simply do not have a single scrap of food left on the boat (I'm a little over-generous when it comes to ducks, hence why the ones in the marina are like beer kegs).

Dave nattered away down in the engine pit and we listened to some of his hilarious stories, including how an old lady once touched his arse whilst he was fixing a lightbulb for her in her house. Like Dave says, you've got to watch these older people. At least on a boat your arse is nearly always up against a wall or an engine part, leaving little room for error or mistaken identity.

Dave grinned after fixing the bilge pump (works a real treat now, and could probably empty the canal in an hour or so to give Canal and a River Trust something to think about) and moved on to checking the antifreeze in the engine, which is at a level that could stand absolute zero (perfect for a relaxing winter trip across the North Passage).

The gas hatch came next - something I have never looked inside before, for good reason. Out came three gas bottles, a pond pump (the canal could do with the occasional water feature here and there - a fountain would be nice), several miles of hose, rust and, last, but not least, a fabulous pink foldable step stool that looks like a cross between Mr Blobby and a hobbit's high chair. Incredibly proud of my finding, I stood on it immediately with a smug grin at Dad. These kinds of miracles are perfect for short people like us to aid in decorating ceilings.

After flapping the oven door open and shut for a few minutes, we discovered it had a mind of its own and the fan inside kept turning on and off. Dave looked at it suspiciously, threatening it with a screw driver. He found the plug underneath the oven attached to a socket on the floor (stupid place to put a socket on a boat where water sits), unwired it and ripped the oven out with glee. Bits stuck together with grease like a complicated bowl of crunchy nut clung to the sides and ancient spillage stains plastered its back. The oven attempted to have its own back and attack Dave with its door and hit him in the legs with a set of wire shelves. He laughed at it and threw it out on the bow where it stood looking miserable whilst we conquered the bathroom.

The new tap we chose in B and Q thankfully fitted first time (unlike the toilet seat) and Dave unscrewed the old waste with a cough and a grunt at the horrific smell that ensued. Black sludge went over the floor and I fled in horror as Dad took it outside with a pair of rubber gloves to dunk it in the canal and scrape it with a screwdriver. Bravely, I poked my head back around the bathroom door to spy on Dave folded in half under the sink. I eyed up his huge tool bag on the floor, which he fondly described as a bag of 'useful shite'. At least it wasn't dirty shite.

Half an hour later, and we had the first new item on the boat fully installed, with a mass rush to use it to clean the grime from our skin. With a scent of lavender soap, we were ready to take on the world and loaded up Dave's van with the oven and gas bottles. His little dog grinned at us in an unfriendly manner over the front seats as Dave showed us a big red post knocker he had used to knock in over 70 fence posts during the week. I could barely lift it above my shoulders, so any fence I put in would just about hold back a couple of guinea pigs. I leave those kinds of jobs to people with appropriate muscles and veins like rope wrapping their arms.

With a wave and a smile, Dave was off after a successful morning's work and we rubbed our hands together in anticipation of lunch. Dad went off to pick up Mum and shortly after their return, we sat together munching through a cold picnic of scotch eggs and chicken slices, balancing plates on our knees and thinking longingly of the table yet to come.

The kitchen cupboards came off the wall shortly after lunch, with some levering and minding of the screws that had come through the bulkhead from the room next door. After pulling down one kitchen cupboard, the central board of the ceiling fell down along with several unidentified items and a couple of dust bunnies, complete with their own grey lawn. Uh oh. Enough was enough.

At 2pm Dad and I wandered around to the marina office for the beer festival and to drown our (my) sorrows over the kitchen ceiling. My keen nose quickly led me to the highest voltage cider which I clung to whilst chatting to some of our boating friends who also decided to join in the fun. We finally met some of our lovely neighbours who so far, we have only smiled and waved at, whilst they walk by with their little tiny dogs in jumpers. Yes, you heard right. Dogs in jumpers. Paste that image across your retinas.

Two of our friends we have known since the days we had a narrowboat chatted with us, merrily fuelled by cider and beer, their pink and argyle sweaters clashing together. The argyle was REAL argyle, worn by a real golfer who knows the name of every club and hole. That's some achievement. I used to think an albatross was a bird. Apparently it's a golfing term.

Half cut takes on a whole new meaning with a drunk boater, with one leg on land and one in the cut (cut means canal for non-boaters out there). I did wonder how our neighbours would manage to stumble back to their boats on the narrow jetty.

A live band turned up from Devizes, singing about how they bought a pint of 6X and carried on. Marvellous. If I bought a pint of that, I'd carry on somewhere else where there was more choice of drink, for a start. Bless them. Some of the high voltage cider would give the band something to sing about, ooh-arr. Proper job, like.

24th August - Why Didn't We Think of That?

As usual, August Bank holiday always means one thing - RAIN. Actually, we've been very fortunate the past few days in that it has been very dry. Until this morning, that is. The plan was to paint the boat roof early this morning, until we discovered Mother Nature had left a lovely gift of a thick blanket of dew to keep the boat cosy, and make Dad frustrated. Watered down paint is not a good idea, hence the rush to grab everything that could absorb water out of the boat and spread it across the roof. We went through about four jey clothes, twenty sheets of kitchen roll and a lot of puffing and grunting until Dad spotted a neighbour standing on the roof of his boat casually sweeping water off the top with a broom. We stared at each other, mouths agog. Why on earth didn't we think of that?

After another half an hour of sweeping, mopping and sponging, the roof didn't look any drier, and Dad's trousers were in an even worse state than the roof. While he went home to change, I sat and finished polishing the tiller (which looked as though it had never seen a tin of Brasso in its life) until it sparkled like gold. Our neighbours probably thought I was slightly insane, lovingly stroking it up and down and twirling it in the sun. They should be envious. It's a total embarrassment to go out with a tiller that you can't at least see your face in (or anyone else's for that matter). Now it serves as a spare mirror in the shed (great for checking salad in your teeth, or that kind of thing). Dad came back a while later, and, when the roof finally started to dry, Dad whipped out the roller and painted it. When I looked up a couple of hours later after polishing an awkwardly-shaped tiller pin, I had to shield my eyes. The colour is fab, a lovely Cornish cream colour - but the shininess, well. If no-one moved out of the way on the cut before, they will now, partially out of fear of the twelve-foot wide tank moving towards them with nowhere to go, and the other half out of blindness from the dazzling sunlight reflecting off of our girl's striking roof. Move over blonde bombshell, cream is the colour, baby, yeah. Even the marina manager approved when he popped over for a quick chat. He's a remarkable man, easily recognised by his luminous blue braces and fast walk, with an air of your head teacher at school. You have to be on your best behaviour whenever he looks in your direction - it is his and his wife's marina to manage, after all. And a great job they do of it too (I'm not just saying that because he's looking over here through his binoculars whilst I write this).

Mum joined us at lunch for, yep, you guessed it, lunch, after breaking into the brand new toaster left for us by the boat's previous owners. It does about two slices at a time in its monstrously ugly white box thing, barely touching the sides with no hint of brown - but it still resembled toast when bitten in to. Tea came shortly, and we indulged in our first meal on our girl, balancing the plates on our lap. The table is yet to come, a lesser commodity compared with other necessaries such as a toilet seat. Which we have to buy again, as the one we ordered online does not fit. The toilet that is, not our arses - just what size did you think we were? The wasp we hit with the paperwork is now smirking itself silly.

Engineer Dave turned up as planned this afternoon with a big grin and a box of bits. I opened the bilge hatch for him, and down he went into Wonderland below, quick as a rabbit. It was only when he was down there did I tell him about the enormous spiders (the ultimate test of a proper man). He shuddered briefly, but carried on. Our girl approved by making sure he was hit on the head a few times by the hatch. Such a naughty tease. Dave fiddled with her loose bits, pulling up her boards to inspect the wiring beneath with a tut. 'Deary me, look, your engine buzzer is only held on by a piece of tape. Do you know what this is?' He pointed and I looked hurriedly round for Dad, out of my depth. 'Erm, not really, no, but I know they've put the engine reader the wrong way round', pointing in a totally different direction and changing the subject. I call it the engine reader, but really it's a display which shows how many volts you have going through the system, and it's a pig to read. Not only is it upside down, but it's back to front in a mirror. Duh.

Dave grinned again, opening his magic box of bits as Dad appeared to look at the bilge pump which had problems. Wiring problems. Oops.

After about twenty flushes of the water from the bilge, and a second pump installed, that one failed too, leaving Dave temporarily scratching his head and requesting that a goldfish be put in it so we could see the flow of the water out through the opaque pipe. I went off in search of one, but only found a giant muddy carp, which didn't look amused at the thought. Instead, I just kept filling up the bucket for Dave so he could flush again. I though putting goldfish down a toilet was cruel. It's actually a breeze compared with this.

All the while Dave worked he chatted about his boat that he lives on, which he is doing up over time as it caught fire a few years ago. Long story. We explained to him how we removed the fridge and are looking for a new one.

'I don't worry about that in winter.' He said, crimping a fitting to a wire. 'I keep my food in the canal.'

Dad and I raised eyebrows.

'You know, hang it over the side in a container, keeps it cold. I keep the rest of my food in the gas hatch in the front. Lovely and cold in there.'

We now know Dave's secret - quick picnic, anyone?

'I don't bother with heating if it's eight degrees or above. You get used to it. I live on the boat with my dog, we have great conversations.' He changed the subject quickly. 'I once bought a mower off a 79 year old, even though I had three already. You've gotta watch these old people. They're deceiving they are.'

Another crimp and Dave hummed along to himself and chatted away merrily. He says he talks to himself and the dog a lot and apologised. I do it all the time. Perhaps it's the ones that don't are the ones you have to watch. Earwigging someone talking to their dog reveals a lot about a person. Most people would think I need a straight jacket if they heard me.

After lots of hand wetting and pulling at wires, Dave decided he will come back next weekend to wire her up properly and get in a few other odd jobs (plus a beer or two at the marina beer festival). Dad agreed and we chatted to Dave outside some more, whilst he admired our girl (I'm sure she blushed when he said how nice the roof looked). He waved as he left in his little white van, and Dad and I tucked our girl in bed, looking back at her fondly as we too, left and said goodnight.

20th August - an Obsession

I haven't seen the boat for a couple of days now (some of us who own boats do work, you know!), hence the withdrawal symptoms growing stronger than ever. We ran out of cider and wine tonight, and that made matters even worse. I could tell by Mum's slip of the tongue that things were getting desperate when she described a pair of rubber gloves as welly gloves. They might as well be.

Dad, however, did get the chance to go today and took Andrew with him, a nice man who fitted out our previous boat, and does a wonderful job with a saw and a slice of sandpaper. Apparently, he thought the boat is marvellous, and measured up for our new set of front steps that lead down in from the bow. He did a fantastic job at home building a set of stairs that we use every day and they're still there after seven years, so we can at least trust him. His latest ventures have included making giant wooden camels - as long as he doesn't build our steps with a couple of Bactrian-sized humps in, we'll be fine.

Our girl is due another visit on Sunday by a man called Dave who is going to look at her over active bladder problem. She still seems to drip a little too much for our liking (nighttime pull-ups do NOT work on boats) and the pump still isn't working. I'm sure she's doing this on purpose, just to get all these charming men on board fondling her bits and bobs. Naughty thing.

Just as a new home requires furniture, as does a boat, so we went off around B&Q and Wickes' this evening to nosy around their kitchen displays oohing, aahing, stroking surfaces and looking puzzled at drawers with no handles. Apparently, this is the in thing. Our eyes caught a nice unit with a rounded end and we touched it fondly. Dad and I quickly found the most important item of furniture - the wine rack. We told Mum there's no need to buy any other units, the wine rack will do just fine. That, and a fridge - to keep it cold before drinking, of course.

The taps were another issue all together - some were stupendously ugly (goodness knows who designed them) and others were out-of-this-world enormous and large enough to hang a bath towel on whilst you washed. All we wanted was a simple bathroom tap. They're not called taps on the labels. They're called 'basin mixers'. It probably means they play awesome tunes with dramatic basal tones perfect for the echoing bathroom environment. Or something like that. Either way, we'll find out soon enough.

As we wandered back through the kitchen section, I spotted a row of toilet seats and crowed in delight (I do have an excellent taste in toilet humour), shouting very loudly whilst pointing at one which resembled a fish tank. A couple sat talking to the kitchen salesman in his little open plan office stared as if I were some lunatic that had never seen a toilet seat before. It's not every day you have so much choice. They were certainly much cheaper than the one Dad had to order for our boat loo (there's no way I'm perching on the one that's there now). He ordered it yesterday outside, whilst we read through the frightening paperwork that stated never to EVER flush if there's something you haven't eaten first (I never get this, as you technically don't eat your turds first, unless you're a rabbit, then you do it several times). The wasp at that moment of reading that tried to attack us had no chance, being hit in the face by a picture of a saniflow toilet. Good job it wasn't a real one - then it would have felt it as well as seen it. (And probably smelled it, too).

Back in B&Q, we rushed around, grabbing rolls of lining paper, wallpaper paste and brushes, which I took great delight in stroking each one, carefully rolled in their own little wrappers like little hairy mice. Dad chose the quality ones which felt like touching a guinea pig that recently used hair conditioner. If that doesn't leave a smooth finish, perhaps some anti-frizz cream will do the trick.

Exhausted, we walked out of the shop looking like a trio of decorators, tubs swinging from our arms and paper rolls under our arms. After tucking it all into the boot, Dad went off into Halfords next door to look for some anti-freeze, but couldn't find the right one. There's so many different types, it's a job to choose. It's like trying to pick a juice drink - ready mixed, concentrated, blah, blah, blah, don't drink, dangerous for the environment, produced in a factory that handles nuts - no, wait, that's just juice. Bored at reading bottles, I looked around. I have never seen so many wiper blades for sale, enough to line up end-to-end to cross the English Channel. It's just not normal. Whilst I gawped at them, I wondered why my brother wasn't in here, owing to his obsession with anything that has a wheel in each corner. Then I realised. There's more than one Halfords. And I can't talk. I have an obsession with a fat boat.

18th August - Pink Boats

Our licence arrived today - hoorah! And, amazingly, the canal and River Trust have matched this year's display paper colour to the soon-to-be painted green interior. Either they've been spying on us or it's just a coincidence, I'm not so sure. I reckon we should all have a chance to vote on next year's colour. Pink would be a real hoot and ensure even more boaters didn't pay their licence for fear of people getting the wrong impression from the towpath. Orange would be nice and clash with the traditional red, perhaps persuading boaters to be a bit more brave with their colour schemes. I did see a whole pink narrowboat once. It was horrifying, like a life-sized version of a Barbie play set, but with Ken driving. Whilst Barbie played in the bath inside. It gives me the shudders every time I think of it.

As it was a work day, I did have to plough through the W word for most of the day, but was let off the leash for a few hours to see some of our marvellous friends who we used to edit the Kennet and Avon Canal trust's magazine, the Butty, with. Together we wined and dined at the Barge Inn, Honeystreet. Whilst waiting for them, we took a moment to wander the towpath past a few moored boats and reflected on how quiet it was. At home, all you can hear on a windy day is the main road, and on the towpath, cyclists roar by and groups of people like packs of bouncers squeeze past you, treading in the odd dog turd or two as they do so. This towpath looked very clean. On the way into the pub we saw one of our boating friends who shook our hands, smiling his broad grin and patting Dad on the back. He called me 'babes'. I'm not sure quite what to make of that term yet, but I grinned back anyway, eyes darting quickly to the cider pumps. I chose a risky looking one labelled 'Area 51'. Perhaps that's where you end up after drinking a couple of pints of it, who knows. I stuck with a half, just in case it had any funny ideas on reprogramming my legs.

We picked the biggest table in the pub and sat laughing and chatting our way through our meals. Mike ended up with a huge spider on his glasses, and after a frightened flick, it landed perfectly on Dad's jumper, earning a gold medal in the gymnastic category at the same time. It soon ended up a snack for the pub cat, which obviously looked hungry after pacing up and down the table several times (I did pleasure in throwing it off once).

It was marvellous to talk canal with our friends who actually understand the challenges of boating and the relaxation it can bring to those such as us who choose not to holiday abroad each year and prefer the comfort of our own homes. And boats, of course.

I went out tonight with my friend's horses (he taught me how to carriage drive them), and whilst tugging them gently round a corner, a thought popped into my head. How is horsepower measured? At that moment, one of the horses let rip an enormous fart, temporarily popping the bubble in which the question appeared. Later on, I remembered again and a Googled it, discovering that one horsepower is equivalent to the power required to lift 33,000 pounds one foot in one minute. We have fifty horsepower in our girl's engine, and as of yet, it hasn't been able to lift the boat barely an inch out of the water, but it does do a wonderful job propelling it forwards. A floating object is a bit different to a static weight, so does horsepower change in water? Old narrowboats were one horsepower, equivalent to one horse, one rope pulling one boat over several hours. Big difference there.

Another bizarre question that popped into my head today was, what happens when, say for instance, a duck goes to the toilet in water? Does it have a safety valve, or does the duck sink out of sight like the Loch Ness monster, hence why you never see a duck do a dump when swimming? I haven't, anyway. Mum suggested perhaps it has its own grease tap and requires packing (or pecking as ducks call it) to fill the gap. Who knows - I'm not Googling that one.

17th August - Never Hand a Lady a Bag of Spanners

So much for summer. This morning bought thick drizzle and irritating gales which blew the miserable mist into every nook and cranny from your pants down to your socks. Now and then the weather would pause, leading you down the garden path in terms of being hopeful that it might stop. Only the ducks and geese at the marina appeared overjoyed at the prospect of even more water falling from the sky.

We clambered onto the boat and Dad fiddled with the knobs on the radiators - now I know what the teeny key in the kitchen drawer was for - the knife left in there I'm slightly concerned about. Perhaps it was to keep the monsters that gurgle in the heating system at bay.

The heating itself started up like that of a jet engine, leaving us clamping our ears and freezing to the spot as the noise grew to a higher pitch. I had serious considerations of jumping out of the swan hatch as it got higher, but found my feet glued firmly to the floor in anticipation of an explosion.

Either Dad couldn't hear it, or he pretended he couldn't, as he wandered around feeling the radiators and explaining things about plumbing that were way beyond my knowledge. All I know is you press a button and magically the monster in the engine bay uncurls itself, roaring and burbling and, just like magic, there's something called heating. On a boat. Magic, that is.

After getting over the excitement of some warmth, it was time to get down and dirty with our girl down in the pits. I only thought there was one pit, but there seems to be three. Or maybe four, I lost count whilst figuring out the combination to replace the boards by.

Dad climbed into pit one and I sat and watched him as he pointed and pulled things out of her naughty parts and checked dipsticks and other strange orafices. I discovered a whole new world down below (it was like journey to the centre of the earth) with chasms of rust patches, a miniature sea in the bilge bucket and a monstrous-sized spider which crawled up the pipe work to stare at Dad. It was so big, I'm surprised Dad didn't shake its hand.

In pit two (in the shed) came another couple of naughty bits including a dipstick for oil and a water hole (not the sort you get in Africa with Rhinos and Zebras crowded around). A quick skinny dip of the fingers made sure our girl was well hydrated. Her green engine body is marvellously shiny, so much so, I am terrified of putting a dirty foot mark on it. It actually made the spanners look dull next to it. I passed Dad a few after rummaging in the bottomless bag he bought along from home which has about fifty different sizes in. 'Hand me a spanner.' , all well and good, 'which one?'. You always end up with the one that doesn't quite fit, so you have to rummage again to find the next size down or up. Never hand  a lady a bag full of spanners. It's very dangerous in the wrong hands.

I used to consider owning a horse. Now I have fifty of them! Well, sort of. Apparently the engine is 50 horsepower - a big step up from our measly 35hp on our old narrowboat. In the good old days fifty horsepower pulling a boat with ropes meant you had to seriously consider getting out of the way or end up a flattened pancake in the dust. Nowadays it's only the cyclists on the towpath that actively seek to mow you down at any given opportunity.

After finishing playing with spanners and grease, we retreated into the boat, marvelling at the new-found kitchen space where the fridge and microwave had been. Yesterday morning was a real treat and both were disposed of at the local dump, polar bears and all. The ice somehow remained intact and refused to melt, much to Dad's disgust, as he expected to have a chuckle by driving along in the truck with the meltwater spewing along behind and decorating the windscreen of prospect tailgaters. Instead, the polar bears wandered off in search of the nearest champagne bucket to cool off in and celebrate their release into the wild.

This morning Dad decided to tackle cleaning the back of the sofa (an excellent effort achieved in just five minutes, a record time for a surface area bigger than our dining room table at home). He handed me a bucket to take back to the shed whilst he nipped to the loo. Casually, I took my time in the shed, admiring the scenery from the back doors of rolling distant hills swathed in fluffy cloud. As I breathed in deep, the toilet flushed. And I forgot. There's a toilet tank vent at the back of the boat. The smell was horrific, so much so, I had to check the contents of the bucket, just to make sure there wasn't something lurking in there by mistake. In one quick bound, I dropped the bucket and dashed down inside the boat back to the kitchen, face next to the window for a gulp of fresh air, staring at Dad as he came out of the loo. He frowned. 'What's the matter with you?' I looked at him again. 'Nothing. By the way, that smell - it wasn't me.'

I haven't used the toilet yet. I'm worried that if I do, something might get stuck and the macerator teeth might growl at me and refuse to dispose of something unmentionable.

How embarrassing.

16th August - Maiden Voyage

 

Today was our maiden voyage - although it's supposed to be summer, the weather is refusing to be fair game and blessed us with 40mph winds. Which is of course, marvellous for boating in. On the sea with a sailing ship perhaps.

Before setting off, Mum sucked the sofa to death with the Hoover (I'm surprised there's anything left of it) and painted two swatches of green on the walls which matched our neighbour's boat perfectly, so that if we have the blinds open we wouldn't know where the wall ends and the window begins. The pea green didn't make the swatch stage as it looked slightly too violent, a shade resembling something that might crawl out of the pot by itself.

Even the bowl of oranges cringed at the thought and wrinkled in disgust.

After fumbling with the half a mile long ropes like a bunch of novices, we started the engine and were off, the wind blowing us out of the mooring a treat. In fact, too much of a treat, causing our others neighbours to look around nervously watching as we guided our girl around their bows, smiling sweetly as we passed. We passed the initiation test by getting out of the narrow marina entrance with barely a few centimetres to spare and glided along past the boats moored on the towpath, and lo and behold, we passed our old narrowboat, still well cared for and loved by her new owners. We smiled at her fondly as we passed her, patting our new girl gently, cooing, 'that's our old boaty over there. You're ours now.' People on the towpath probably thought we were crazy, and a few of them commented on the size of our new girl. 'Gosh, isn't it wide! 12ft - that's huge!' It's a good job she isn't human, or that would end up a serious insult, probably resulting in a punch up.

We discovered a wonderful aspect of owning a wide beam today. Everyone else moves out of the way. No more stopping, holding back. It seems narrowboats want absolutely nothing to do with a tank like ours and refuse to go anywhere near it, fear taking their faces into whole new territories of contorted terror as we approach. Bridges with blind exits are enormous fun and Dad delighted in blowing the acoustic canned air horn (another goody left by our girl's previous owners) at every opportunity, letting every approaching boat within earshot know that something huge is coming their way and will result in a quick dash into the shrubbery and a panic attack on their part. How times have changed since owning a narrowboat.

We were lucky today and didn't need to jump off to do the swing bridge as a lady kindly waited for us to go through, having no idea that we were about to go through, turn around and come back. When I opened my mouth to say, she said she would shut the bridge whilst we turned and leave us as she was in a hurry. When Dad said something to her from the back of the boat she decided to wait. What a misery. Perhaps I approached her wrong with a smile as I told her what we intended to do. She looked the type that if she smiled back she might combust with the effort.

Sitting on the bow of the boat (or driving) is like being a celebrity. Everyone on the towpath waves, smiles, says good morning, good afternoon or whatever it is to you. I've since improved my hand wave to one similar to the queen which works excellent. You just sit there and people who are miserable just can't help themselves and HAVE to look up at you and grunt. I just have to perfect the art of people throwing money at the magic waving money box and that should just about buy us a new set of kitchen units after one weekend, judging by the towpath footfall.

On the way to our stop point, we checked the engine hatch whilst our girl was chugging along to see what was stirring beneath. The excitement was just too much for her, and she wet herself prolifically into the bilge, causing slight concern and constant gazing at the bilge bucket and non-functional pump which was about as much use as a chocolate fire guard.

I picked up a nasty habit of slamming the engine hatch and nearly burst and eardrum doing so. Next time I'll shut her quietly, lesson learned.

We stopped at our mooring to have lunch at our favourite general pub, the Three Magpies, munching our way through two courses. The pudding was great, but the pancake stack was more of a slide and didn't have enough pancakes. To me, a stack is at least six inches.

All the same, we stopped to rest after on the bow of the boat and fed some greedy ducks and got investigated by a group of swans who tried to nibble my arm. Very cute.

We left the visitor moorings refreshed and happy, congratulated by a fellow boater on our 'appropriate speed' - 'jolly good, well done, so nice to see someone go by slowly' - not like the hire boaters who passed us and him at top speed a few minutes before, leaving Mum's sea legs well and truly behind.

As we made it back to the marina, I had the opportunity to drive and delighted in watching the swallows dart and dive around the boat, almost touching the front of it where Mum and Dad stood.

The wind picked up to a howling gale through the marina entrance and Dad had a job to squeeze through, as we were blown back out like a piece of paper. A good rev from our girl and she was in once more, chugging around to our mooring. A couple of terns (birds which look like a bizarre cross between a swallow and a seagull) hunkered down on the jetties nearby, screeching and taking to the air as we passed.

With a sigh of relief, we made it back into our mooring and tied her up gently after her hard work, coiling the spare rope like a snake charmer's basket on the front (presentation is everything) and sinking down into the sofa indoors, picking giant thistle seeds off of everything as they blew into the boat. Soon, we'll have them growing inside with the amount of dirt on the floor.

We discovered the wet nappy issue earlier in the engine bay was due to this strange grease tap we have to screw down every time we move the boat. Apparently she wasn't sealed enough, hence we have to constipate her every time we even think of going anywhere.

We tucked her up for bed and left her happy, snug as a bug next to our neighbours as we drove away, looking back at her fondly. 'Till next time.