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.