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.