Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without inviting a few (well-chosen) friends around for some nibbles and a nice warm by the fire. The one we've never lit properly before. The one we hadn't burnt off the paint fumes from. Hence, our first attempt was thwarted by the unintentional testing of the new smoke alarms. After facing the complicated decision of which alarm to press the stop button of (there's 55ft between them), the doors, windows and swan hatch were thrown open so we could enjoy the fresh, minus one degrees marina air. Even Bolt would struggle running that many feet with a foggy mist and a passageway designed only for those with the most perfect sense of balance without falling sideways into the toilet as the other occupants of the boat dash in panic across the living room floor.
After fanning the alarms all morning, we worked up a fierce appetite, and whilst waiting for our guests to arrive, we tackled Mum's latest board game of 'sandwich roulette'. The beef ones are best for this - some have horseradish, some don't. Spinning the platter around so the next person has no idea is the best part. Never mind coughing over the stove fumes.
Once our guests were on board, things started to hot up (extra body heat for spatial warming works a treat), and the conversation got more and more interesting after a few rounds of beef sandwich roulette. Then came vocal charades when none of us could remember the name of a popular brand of rubber gloves. Instead, we now call them mongooses. Signwriter Rob says the fluffy trim on them is perfect for polishing windows and the like. Mongooses are a little hard to come by in the UK, but I do have my eyes on a neighbour's cat that would do nicely for a polishing trial, especially as it seems to have a knack already of walking up the boat gunnels and glaring in the windows at us. If it could polish with its stare, people would have to resort to sunglasses to look at the paintwork.
The only downside to lighting our new stove is the amount of condensation. We had an avalanche of ice slip off the inside of the windows the other day, and whoever sat on the sofa below the air vent had to suffer being randomly dripped upon in awkward places. Polar bears now live under the floorboards, and if you've ever wondered why there are no penguins on the canal, it's because the entire UK population live on our boat in the cupboards. Even our boaty neighbours complain our girl is way too cold, and dread the day they are invited over for a winter's party. They even light their own fires day and night in an attempt to warm her up and avoid the cold emanating (and possibly emigrating) from her steel sides.
Wearing arctic gear and going to the toilet on a boat is a whole other matter entirely. We have a rule that if someone has not left the loo within five minutes, a search party breaks down the toilet door to unfreeze the unfortunate person from the toilet seat with one of those lighter sticks you use in the kitchen for doing the top of creme brûlées. Very painful - especially if you have a fondness for a sugary crunch on your dessert.
Fortunately, on the second party, we finally twigged the stove and had it roaring away like an English summer, whilst we sat around with our guests all afternoon in t-shirts eating lemon and toffee muffins and playing roll roulette (this time with tuna, egg or coronation chicken sandwich fillings). It's easier with rolls as you have the advantage of being able to lift up the top lid and check first.
A bit like the previous toilet seat, which, the day after our party we took great delight in taking to the local recycling facility to dispose of with a great clatter into one of the steel bins. Unsure of what material it was (you can never be too careful when it comes to choosing the right bin at the dump, in case Captain Jobsworth comes out of the hut to tell you off), we asked one of the chaps on duty who clearly didn't want to be associated with the disposal process and stood at a barge pole's length away holding his arm out to point. 'Plastics, mate, that's where that goes.'
We daren't tell him there was a tiny bit of metal in it too. And a few other things that are best left to the imagination.
The old front door steps went next with a huge lob into the wood bin, carpet topping and all, to make way for the nice new ones Handy Andrew has made us (minus the camel humps, of course). The great thing with the new steps is that they creak unexpectedly, no matter your weight. If you're smallish and you step on them and hear a huge crack, you panic and wonder how on earth you managed to put on so many pounds. If you're a bit more, well, you know, at the other end of the spectrum it's even more of a worry.
For us, it means visitors are less likely to steal our cakes and sugar, with their fear that the steps may not withhold them getting back out into the wild again. Lemon muffin, anyone?
