Towpath Talk November Special

19th October - Best Behaviour

Winter's on its way, and, unlike hurricane Gonzales, work on our girl is starting to slow. Now with the interior walls painted and the bilge looking stunning, we've paused for breath. This week was kitchen week, and off we trotted to the West Country to hunt for a kitchen somewhere cheaper than the big name stores. We ended up at a showroom in Taunton, and stood marvelling at the enormous bathroom displays (yes, the company does bathrooms as well as kitchens, not a million miles away plumbing-wise and all that).

I stared at a bath resembling a catwalk shoe and had to walk around the other side, just to see if it was real. It certainly wouldn't have fitted in our boat (or anyone else's for that matter, unless its name is the 'Ark Royal'). The water tank wouldn't cope, for a start. And as for the tiles, well - that's what I call BALLAST. I've never known all four bathroom walls to be covered in more granite than the Cornish coastline. 

The sales assistant pounced out of the kitchen department to greet us, and lead us around to gaze lovingly at coloured under lighting, hidden pelmets, drawers that shut smoothly with a nudge (great for when other boats pass at 6mph rather than 2mph) and doors with no handles (meaning you don't become momentarily attached to the furniture when a holiday boater smacks into you and, in fear, your sleeve decides to hang onto something with a mind of its own. Clothing sometimes has its own rational thoughts, which is a dangerous thing to contemplate).

Mum stroked the glass splash back. 'I'd like one like this.'

A sucking noise ensued as the salesman squeezed air through his teeth.

'Ooh, no, you can't have glass on a boat. Boats have to flex.'

Last time I looked our boat didn't have the muscle capacity to flex, and I'm almost certain there's something called glass in the window frames. Either that, or it's my imagination.

'It'll crack you know. I have a motor home, and I know what that's like.'

Depends how you drive it I suppose. There's no humps in the canal. Unless you find a bike or shopping trolley under a bridge. That's always entertaining.

'Come, come.' The salesman whisked us off to a large dining table and chairs planted in the ugliest kitchen display on this planet, with dark blue doors and light grey and black mottled work tops. The salesman waved his arms in between setting up his laptop.

'£24,000, this kitchen, you know.'

Mum and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Obviously, the uglier the kitchen, the more expensive it is to make. Good job we're getting a lovely shiny white one for a modest sum.

Our girl would not appreciate being ugly on the inside, it would be an insult. Blue kitchen units? No thanks.

Once we had settled up and chosen the extra hidden cutlery drawer (extra safety so it doesn't decide to randomly fling open when the poo tank is full), we made our way home, breathing contented sighs as we imagined what our girl will eventually look like with her new makeover.

We were briefly distracted by a traffic census and pulled over by the police to ask where we were going, where we had come from etc, etc. It ended up a life story and the census-taker was crying by the end of it, especially when we mentioned about the granola behind the oven that we threw off of the boat. That brings tears to my eyes, too.

Unfortunately, the census-taker failed to see me in the back (the glory of tinted windows) and assumed there were only two in the car. I looked down at myself, just to check I hadn't sprouted a tail and fur in unusual places. I tried to growl menacingly, but it came out all wrong, so I settled for a royal wave and a laugh, leaving the census team crying by the roadside about the horror of Sign Writer Rob's pump out toilet tank story. That gets everyone, that one does.

Later that week, we met our new boaty neighbours who came to claim the empty space between us and our other neighbours. I'm disappointed as I can no longer see the Big Ben-sized clock in their rear cratch, so have to rely on a watch instead.

The new neighbours on the other hand (no pun intended) are interesting. They have a fat boat (obviously, it's in Fat Boat Corner with the rest of us) and have come armed with packets of briquettes for their stove. Perhaps there's a cold winter coming and they know more than we do.

The gentleman works for the Canal and River Trust - better be on our best behaviour (or else) and the lady appears very good at cooking. Mum spied a whole trussed chicken awaiting to go in their oven the other day. It was already dead, mind, which proves they aren't suspicious or strange.

New neighbours - how novel.

We also have a marina warden at the moment whilst the managers are on holiday. Walking into the office is like stumbling upon Dad's Army. All it needs is the warden to wear a white helmet with a 'W' on. Mum and Dad dropped off some fresh, home-grown grapes from our garden the other day and he took them with a smile and replied: 'that'll perk the troops up!' He does, however, do a marvellous job for the managers and the marina is certainly staying perky. It might also have something to do with the mammoth pile of chocolate bars and strawberry fizz laces on sale. There's nothing like a strawberry lace to get motivated. Or in my case, a whole packet works wonders for driving everyone else up the wall.

5th October - Battle of the Bilge

This weekend started off wet and miserable, with heavy showers dampening our spirits on Saturday morning.

However, even a spot of rain couldn't stop Mum's tenacity with a paintbrush and the inside gunnels received a lick of green paint (the occasional splash of paint too, as Dad's and my impatience proved too much and our pacing caused momentary wobbles and a spattered finish on the floor).  After being threatened by a paintbrush, I was promptly sat on a stool and given two brass air vent grills to polish. Judging by their colouring, they had never seen Brasso in their lives, let alone BB cream (Big Boat cream, that's what it means, ladies). This fancy new cream we have comes in a big white pot, and boy, it's better than any of that anti-ageing rubbish. Stuff laser renewal, this cream can wipe prehistoric crud off of anything brass in under a minute (with a bit of elbow grease, of course). With about twenty grill sections on each, it took over three hours, during which time my white apron had turned charcoal and I had to be fed biscuits like a duck - basically, open my mouth and hope who ever passes plonks one in. Squeaky 'feed me!' impressions work great and imply that you are suffering for a great cause - in this case turning dirty brass into gold. You could see me plus the biscuits in them when I had finished.

As the rain started to cease, Sign Writer Rob loomed up in front of our girl's doors and waved, a grin on his face. The water-stained windows amplified it. 'I've come to do your bilge!'

Dad showed him in the back of our girl, and there was a great deal of banging and scraping, after which I came to look out of curiosity.

When I peered over Dad's shoulder into the man shed, Rob brandished a bucket and a scraper with glee, his body contorted into an isosceles triangle and back propped against the hot water tank. He patted our girl's bottom. 'Oooh, she's warm.' He passed up the bucket full of her rusty shavings. He frowned. 'She's got a dirty bottom mind, I'll say that.'

Dad looked up and spotted the sun breaking through the clouds.

Sign Writer Rob carried on scraping. 'Wonderful, I can't see nothing down here, only engine bits and greasy things.'

It looked like Rob needed greasing up too, so I dashed off to the marina office to buy a jar of coffee, his shouts echoing in my ears.

'See if they've got carrot juice as well, will you, it might help me see in the dark!'

When I came back later, the paint tin had come off and our girl's bottom was starting to look marvellous. Mind you, anything looked marvellous at that point with the waft of paint fumes erupting from the bilge. By the end of the makeover, we were giggling like chihuahuas on helium and anyone who happened to walk by raised their eyebrows and ran, in case the fumes caught up with them, too.

Rob walked slowly out of the bilge like a Halloween monster dripping with grey primer, hair encrusted and stood on end. Several big creases ran across him where he had been wedged like a ham sandwich next to our girl's mighty engine. Even an ironing board would have a job straightening them.

He ambled off for a shower and we headed home to relax before coming back the next day.

Our bilge can now dazzle anyone who happens to opens the hatch, and Dad stood admiring it in the morning, sunglasses on, before we set off for a brief cruise to the pub and back for some lunch. As we set off, a little bi-plane roared overhead and I laughed, undoing the ropes at the front. 'Chocks away!' Why I found it funny, I don't know. It must have been the lingering fumes.

We dashed off onto the cut and paused to eat our Sunday roast at the pub before turning back to the marina and mooring up once more to prepare our minds for the coming working week.

There was Sign Writer Rob on the jetty boards, grinning, his creases gone, and every inch of grey scrubbed off. He stood, shivering in his shorts and t-shirt. The autumn weather was starting to crawl in from the North.

The morning had been cold, and Rob had bought some celotex board to stick in his hatch above his bed, after being tortured by condensation dripping onto his face in the early hours. Apparently, there's lots you can do with leftover foam board and a tin of beans. How someone didn't discover the power of flight sooner we'll never know.

Beans, as always, turned the conversation naturally towards poo, and Rob turned his nose up at the idea of having a pump out tank. When he and his lovely lady took on their narrowboat, the poo tank split, leaving them with a rather fetching mess, and years of fossilised dumps left from the dark ages which took several days of chiselling to get off of the floor. The tank itself had become encrusted to the ground, stuck like the glass case that surrounds the Crown Jewels.

We looked at Rob, horrified, then gazed open-mouthed at each other.

'I think ours is under the bed, isn't it?' Dad said.

Rob smirked.

'Just think of it - you're laying on three tonnes of s**t!'

Aren't we all.