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.