25th March - Silver Bullets

After finally putting down the paintbrushes, sponges, hand drills and rubber gloves, today was the epic day when we could say we had finished the interior of our portly girl. Except for one task.
The dreaded poo tank.

Sadly, the little gauge I fell in love with above the toilet doesn't actually move and has been stuck on zero for months. Evaporation is just not possible, and judging by the clean condition of the suitcases we found under the bed, there's definitely not a leak. (Mind you, a boater told me an interesting story recently how sweetcorn isn't digested by the human body and comes out whole the other end, so a leek or two of the other kind could be possible).

We decided not to risk any dramas out on the cut this summer, so an empty was in order.
After weaving around the other moored boats and odd tufts of grass called islands peppered with ducks and geese, we made it to the service quay and the marina manager came over with a bucket and a big smile to help us.

I didn't want to ask what the bucket was for, but decided it best to enjoy the picturesque Turner-like clouds whilst the pipe was inserted into our girl's bowels. The machine on the quayside shuddered and shook violently, as if it were sucking out demons from the tank. I had a terrible urge to fetch some garlic, a cross and some silver bullets, just in case something emerged, a bit like that film where a chap comes out of a vase in someone's living room. Instead, the marina manager pointed at the see-through tube. 'I can see what you've been eating!'

I dreaded to think. Last week was really topsy-turvey, what with a midweek roast, a pizza, fish cakes and a chilli con carne (not all on the same day, of course), followed by half a tonne of dried fruit and yoghurt. How he could tell all that was a mystery to me, and I dared not look, in case it revealed something about my personality. Raisins are enough to liven anyone up, especially if people are sat next to you. It does them more good than you.

After one final slurp, the machine was done. The monster left in the pipe gurgled one last goodbye, condemned for another year to live inside the steel case. So powerful and fast was this piece of kit, that our girl was practically sucked inside out. People on the Kleenex advert would say it's like wearing gold pants. There's nothing more satisfying than sitting on the loo with a nice empty tank at your disposal - I pledge to spray paint the loo seat gold, just so we get that everlasting golden glow applied to our cheeks.

Now the waste gauge no longer works, Dad has taught me a novel trick for determining how full the tank is by lifting the bed and tapping hard on the tank wall. I don't like to tap too hard in case the tank disintegrates and we end up with fossilised chunks distributed around the bedroom. I'm one of those 'soft' knockers who hate knocking a neighbour's door too hard in case it sounds angry/desperate/annoyed, or in some cases, in case my hand goes right through. At least boat doors are generally made of steel.

We've trained a local woodpecker to sit on ours and drum every time someone squeezes it. It costs a fortune to keep what with all the neurofen and peanuts it consumes.

Thankfully now the beds are in place and the duvet sets are on, still wrapped in their plastic. There's nothing quite like fresh duvets still in their wrappers (even if they make crinkly noises when you sit on them). One of our bed sets has a giant map of the underground on it, just in case we take a wrong turn on the cut when on holiday and end up somewhere we shouldn't. The map is jolly useful for train buffs too.

And the plastic, in case you were wondering, is to stop the occasional drip entering the boat and spoiling the furniture.