9th August - We bought a fat boat

Today we bought a fat boat.

Yes, the great, tank-like bath tubs we used to sneer at on the canal. You know the ones, that cloggle up the canal, greedily keeping locks to themselves and owners smarmily sitting out on deck chairs on the enlarged bow.

We actually bought one. And we love it - well, her, to be polite and correct.

We exchanged on the bow today with one of her lovely owners, who with a smile (and a rather hard bump of his head on the doorway) shook hands and took his belongings and his smoking pipe away with him, a tear in his eye. He looked back one last time at her, and I remembered that look and feeling when we sold our narrowboat three years ago to become land huggers once more. Now we've got a fat boat - double the pleasure, and double the work, challenge accepted.

It all happened within a matter of days - Dad went to the marina to enquire about a mooring in case we decided to buy a boat, and there, lo and behold, was our fat boat, barely seconds in her mooring and about to go with the brokers.

Today we sat, still reeling slightly from the shock, sipping champagne whilst exploring our new best friend. Pulling back the sofa revealed two tennis balls plus, to my excitement, a miniature Narnia-like cupboard tucked deep behind it out of sight, with nothing more interesting than the gas valve for the cooker inside. Still, it was worth a try.

We can't get over the masses of space compared to our old narrowboat, who, bless her, was indeed a great deal skinnier and had trouble keeping still. To be honest, so did we, trying to dance around each other in a 1ft wide corridor. Cooking a breakfast used to be interesting to say the least.

Now, we waft around looking excitedly inside every cupboard and drawer, lifting up mattresses (don't ask), pressing switches and inspecting mushrooms. Not the magic ones, but the ones that live on the roof - the brass ones, of course.

The television is, after all, the most important feature, and after discovering we can in fact get ITV 1, we breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that as long as we are in the marina by 7pm, we will always get Emmerdale. Goodness knows what will happen if we go out on the towpath at that time of day, perhaps the world will end. Or the recording button will save us, whichever comes first.

Amazingly, we have something affectionately called 'the shed' at the back end of the boat, inside, so called because of the many shelves lined in peculiar cans and baskets of hammers, wire, a spirit level and other items that any man would be proud of to have in his cave. To top it all off, there's the fancy gauge for the solar panels (awesome) and the engine below, which I haven't been brave enough to look at yet, hence a visit is due shortly from our South African engineering friend, Ron, who is very fierce with a spanner. Goodness knows what will happen if he encounters our other South African friend, Iain, who can scare the pants off of anybody (except us, of course). They tell you to keep your friends close - they're handy, that's why. You only keep your enemies closer so you can keep an eye on them and make sure they're not stealing your shoreline electric when you have your back turned.

After exploring the bathroom and discovering that at very least we had half a toilet roll kindly left for us, I found something that made my face light up like a Christmas tree. A tank waste gauge. With a little red needle. And - you'll never guess - it actually TELLS you when your poo tank is full! You might wonder why I'm so excited, but all our narrowboat had was a little red light that lit up near the time. With absolutely no inkling what so ever (I like at least a week's notice) we would constantly gaze at the red light thinking, is it full now? Do we need to immediately pump out, or do we play the waiting game? Thankfully, we never got the chance to find out what happens when it's totally full and you flush.

Another pants-wetting moment - we have a bath, an actual BATH. We don't even have one of those at home and I can't remember the last time I saw one (except at a posh B and B, where it had legs on it). This one doesn't have legs, but it does resemble a bath, which is a great bonus.

I did get told off for pulling a bit of carpet off the wall. Yes, not the floor, the wall. To keep it warm in winter. You can't blame me, it's something called curiosity, and I was only testing the glue. And seeing if I could pull it off in the same manner as a wine bottle label (I'm dangerous at parties - wine swap, anyone?).

Dad got into trouble for pulling off the internal mushroom vent. Bits of things came down into Mum's wine glass - champagne does not require seasoning, especially with boat fluff.

A duck looked at us through the window with a 'are you mad?' expression, and I did wonder for a minute, then shook my head.

'No, it's the most exciting project we've ever taken on.' I glanced at the bowl of oranges left on the shelf below the telly, their bright glow the only splash of colour in the boat. 'And, perhaps, the strangest.'