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.
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