5th January, 2015 - Last Christmas, I gave you my... toilet seat

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?

Towpath Talk January Special

The Fat Boat Handbook - November 2014

To celebrate the release of the Canal and River Trust's new 'Boaters Handbook', I thought I would share with you the Fat Boat section which, unfortunately, didn't make the final cut.*

Useful knots

Hurricane force knot:

1. Wrap the rope twice around your hitch.
2. Complete a full figure of eight (over and under) your hitch, then wrap around twice more.
3. Tie three half-hitches.
4. Wrap a half figure-of-eight around the hitch.
5. Add another four half-hitches.
6. Trail the remaining rope and, holding the end of the rope in your left and rolling it gently, coil
    it into a decorative spiral to finish off.

Atomic knot:

Repeat the above steps 1-5 twice over, adding an extra two half-hitches before proceeding to step 6 if any rope remains.

Quick-release:

Loop the rope through the mooring ring or pin, and stand on the stern, holding tightly to ensure the boat does not drift outwards. To release, wait until your skipper asks you to cast ashore and simply let go of the rope.

Slip Knot (quick-release variant):

Perform the actions as for the quick-release knot above, this time standing on the towpath. This knot is so called because of the dangerous aspect of the operator slipping on wet grass, dog turds etc. Be warned.


Mooring

If you plan to stop for lunch and anticipate you would like to continue afterwards to your evening destination, be sure to plan ahead. Remember that adequate overnight stay moorings are few and far between and require forward thinking to make sure your journey is stress-free.
Before mooring for lunch, consider the direction of the general flow of traffic on the canal. If the majority appears to be taking the course you will later follow, moor up in the bridge style as described below. Otherwise, moor up in the standard manner, using mooring pins if required.

Bridge mooring:

Gently pull up in the centre of the canal using a small amount of reverse to come to a full stop. Push your tiller hard over to steer towards the opposite bank and initiate full throttle forwards. Your bow should touch the bank, and your stern should be on the towpath side (see diagram 11a). Tie your stern rope to the nearest available mooring ring, and the bow to a mooring pin (or two in the double-cross position for added strength).
You should be able to step off of your stern and onto the towpath and rest assured traffic will be unable to pass whilst you have your lunch, thus potentially securing a mooring for the evening with little fuss.

Passing Other Craft


At max twelve foot wide, fat boats can choose either side of the canal to travel. If a craft approaches you, it will nearly always stop to allow you to pass. Always say thank you to the crew and, if possible, reassure them with a sweet, hot drink to calm their nerves (a flash of a mug will do if you have no water, tea bags or sugar to hand). If they appear confused and unable to move, kindly point out their barge pole and explain what it is used for.
If a canoe approaches, ask the operator to hang on to the nearest available tree or shrub to prevent them from being sucked towards your fat boat. Most canoeists will automatically assume this position once your are within their sights, so continue with caution if this occurs.


Safety at Locks

For the safety of other craft, it is wise to remind them that they will be unable to fit in the locks with you. Hire boaters will assume it is possible to fit in a gap of one inch, so stay calm and explain the situation to them. It takes on average 32.6 seconds for them to realise, so be patient. If in doubt, offer to go in first and ask them politely to follow.


Avoiding Suffocation

Remember to always leave your air vents clear on the boat. Although it is tempting to arrange slices of toast in them, or poke other amusing items into them, they're there for a reason, especially if you have a four-legged companion. Spending a night on a boat with a greasy, gas-filled dog  is not a pleasant experience, and blocking the air vents can cause a serious incident, most usually resulting in the death of the dog.


Preventing 'Babbling'

To prevent towpath babbling about the width of your boat, there are several steps you can take to reduce the risk of anticipated comments.

- Try painting your boat a dark colour, such as black. Avoid bright colours like reds that make the boat look even bigger and aggravate the public's reaction.

- Failing a colour change, try painting or adding something unusual to your boat to spark comments about that item rather than the width. Tropical plants are a must, but tomatoes and marrows work equally well. Use them carefully. Illegal plants intended for other forms of consumption are not recommended.

- Paint the width of the boat in large letters on the side. This will prevent any confrontational arguments about just how wide your boat is. You might also like to paint 'Don't ask questions' on the side, as well.

- If you get asked for a photograph, pose if it safe to do so, with arms as wide as possible. Foreigners in particular are very keen for photos of owners with their fat boats, and should not be discouraged from taking them at all costs. It is better to be appreciated than snubbed at for being fat (the boat, not you).


*This post is for entertainment only. This blog and I are not responsible for your actions. It would be wise to not follow what I say and stick to the rules of the CRT handbook like glue for your own safety. That's why my rules never made the cut. If you want to try the knots, feel free. Don't blame me if your boat blows away though, or if it takes several hours to untie. Remember, you're the one that tied it, not me.

Towpath Talk December Special

9th November - a Study in Sparkles

The cold North winds have returned to remind us that it is actually the end of autumn, and the rain has followed suit to make everyone feel equally Novemberish. Yesterday's extremely brief trip to the marina to see our girl was no exception. It was the usual case of Sod's law, the sky opening with impeccable timing the minute we stepped out of the car. Marvellous.

Dad stood fumbling with his keys to find the right one for the lock, whilst I stood huddled against the wind watching the swans and ducks who looked overjoyed at the prospect of water beneath them and above them at the same time.

Miserable and shivering, we clambered aboard to gaze upon Mum's remarkable wallpaper feats from earlier in the week, in preparation for the new kitchen arriving very soon. Mum has the extraordinary power to wallpaper over anything and still retain a perfect straight line. If the dog happened to be leant against the wall, it would be easily papered over with only the tiniest bubble visible (at the arse end, of course). I dread to think what would happen if Dad or I stood still too long, hence we steer well clear and leave her to it.

The weather has turned so chilly that the PVA glue Mum has used to seal the woodwork on one wall hasn't yet dried from several days ago, and, as a consequence, anyone who happens to wander past realises they no longer have a jacket on, the wall seizing it from their possession and automatically hanging it for them. Who needs a coat peg?

It's now become a fashion inspiration wall, featuring the very latest trends, as well as a few 'model's own'.

Dad whipped out a tape measure (before the wall grabbed it) and started to measure up for a set of window blinds, tripping over the tables, buckets of paste and hairy, mice-like rollers that have exploded all over the lounge area. It's like a supernova at a DIY store.

Well, since the granite has gone from the kitchen, we need something to weigh the boat down.

Mum is already planning the bathroom, changing it from white tongue-and-groove walls to black panels with twinkles in. Yes, you heard.

Don't laugh.

Mum thinks the toilet seat should match, if we ever find one that actually fits, that is. Soon, there will be a graveyard of loo seats, and we'll have to glue them to the wall like taxidermy trophies. If guests from Antiques Roadshow happen to drop by, 'ooh, yes darling, this was an original Victoria Plumb. Look at the finish - such - errm, oh, I didn't realise the underside came in that shade...'

We're going to go for a sparkly one. The current one is horrific (hence the hovering manoeuvre when it comes to ablutions), so what better way to treat your bum than with something that not only sparkles with cleanliness, but has twinkles in it to match the walls.

I wonder if they do twinkly toilet paper to match.

It's bad enough for me to get two pairs of socks out of the drawer the same each morning. I don't think I could stand much more coordination without the risk of physical implosion.

Still, Dad is happy as Santa has come early with a little sign for the back of our girl with 'Man Cave" on it. It's the nearest we could get to 'man shed', which, incidentally, is soon to be painted gloss white to hide the dirty tide marks our girl has made up the wall from her greasy engine bits. My theory is that it will just show them up even more, but everyone else's is that it will get cleaned quicker. As long as it doesn't have twinkles in it, I don't care. Glue might be helpful, though, to stick random tools and bits of fluff to it, when not in use.

We clambered off the back of our girl and into the wetness once more, taking in the scent of woodsmoke from our neighbours who were huddled up inside their boats, not daring to look outside for fear of a soaking.

For a moment, I didn't blame them. They were all inside, snug and warm like hibernating bears. The marina is incredibly quiet in winter. Everyone vanishes - until someone shouts: 'tea, anyone?!' I do wonder sometimes what they're all up to in their little floating castles. I doubt they will be looking up twinkly toilet seats on their iPads, somehow. Maybe I'm wrong. They're probably reading this.

Today, however, the tables turned and the sun burst from wherever it was hiding yesterday.

On a whim, Dad and I decided to hop on our bicycles and ride four miles to the marina. After not riding one for several years, I became something of an embarrassing sensation on the towpath, struggling to keep up to speed and wincing at puddles (I don't have a mudguard, you see). With a strained face, tight arse and a wide, somewhat wobbly berth, it was a job avoiding those loose hairy things called dogs. Hills and bridges are also currently a no-no, inviting an incredulous dance at each one to jump off and on again. Super Dad had it covered and was off up the towpath in Wiggins gear (gear 26, if you have the good fortune to have that many).

When Dad cycles it looks like a walk in the park. When I cycle, I look like a first-timer at boot camp. Especially as my gears are seized up and stick in one position. Try climbing a hill in six, yeah.

Wobbling like a jelly, I collapsed onto the front of our girl and amused myself by watching our boaty friends who had broken their contract of hibernation and were out walking their dogs and catching fish (not at the same time of course - I don't think even a Newfoundland could manage that one).

We watched in awe as a neighbour caught a leviathan from the swirling deep. The shiny beast of a carp flopped about and bounced around his stern, only an inch or two away from smacking him in the face with its tail. Our neighbour took it as a compliment and hugged the eighteen-pounder like a teddy bear whilst others around him snapped pictures. The fish smiled sweetly to the camera before flapping out of the cuddly grip and landing with a whale-like splash back into the canal. Stuff Loch Ness. Caen Hill has got bigger, huggable (if slightly slippery) beasties.

Sadly, as we do not currently have a kitchen, there was no such thing as a cup of tea on our girl, let alone a packet of biscuits, so we retired to our bikes and cycled past another neighbour, Colin, who eyed up my saddle with suspicion and fetched some tools to raise it. Apparently, it seemed I was sat on my arse, no wonder going uphill was such an ordeal.

I love the suspension on my bike, and now Colin does too. I'd better not leave my bike lurking around, or there won't be any of it left. He's welcome to the front brake. It sticks and needs a flick to turn it off. Hah! Quick getaway? No chance. Not if I jump out in front of him.

On the way home, I was blessed by countless stops to catch my breath and chat to fellow boaters, who eyed Dad and I up, slightly concerned for the lack of a boat. Apparently, we look totally different on land. At least a boat doesn't give you a sore arse.

Our boaty friend Terry the Paint surprised us with the news that he will be painting his boat black and orange. I thought orange was the new black - supposedly having both colours is a fashion essential. We'll be able to see Terry coming a mile off soon. Let's hope he doesn't go for tiger stripes, or we'll have to call him something catchier, like 'Tigger Terry'.

Still, at least he hasn't requested sparkles. There should be a law passed that the decor of your toilet must absolutely NOT, EVER match the outside of your boat. NO.