Tillie Baker's Norfolk Village Tales

Tales from above a Norfolk Village

2010-07-24T14:29:00.000-07:00

Well I had had no work for ages. I was just beginning to think I had better make friends with those bin men again, as they may be able to find some scraps for me on their rounds, when I got the call to go to Scotland. I tried to resist by saying I could only manage a four day week, but they insisted. It is nice to be wanted.

So, from now until around the end of August, I am travelling from Norwich Airport on Sunday afternoon, returning on Thursday evening. Not a particularly taxing journey and a good seven hours less than driving, so I was quite looking forward to it.
All was well until I realised that last week I would have to travel from Heathrow and be away for a fortnight as I had my last weekend of the year at Metanoia Institute in between trips.

I was feeling relaxed and happy after my birthday weekend and, you may not believe this, I was highly organised in preparation for my trip to catch the 21.40 plane to Edinburgh.
The trouble began when I realised, when glancing at the ticket again whilst in a traffic jam on the A11 (unusual I know), it wasn't 21.40 at all, but 20.05! Someone had obviously changed the time on my ticket without telling me. I vowed to find out who the culprit was at a later date but for now decided to concentrate on overtaking the stationary vehicles on the M25, by lane hopping - a practice I normally abhor in others, but needs must!
I could feel it in my water. This was going to be another of Tillie Baker's eventful trips.

To be fair, everyone was very helpful. From the wonderful chap, Alex, at the off site airport parking, who broke all the laws of gravity to get me there. To Geoff - British Airways (more about B A later) Staff Member Extraordinaire at Terminal 5 who managed to get me on the next flight; Alex's efforts being in vain in the end.

So my journey was spent in reasonable comfort, apart from a few issues with my neighbour, a Chinese lady, who burped a strong smell of garlic loudly and frequently into my ear for the entire flight. An hour can seem a long time, but I busied myself by reading the aircraft safety leaflet and wondering whether, if evacuation of the plane should be necessary, whether I might flout health and safety rules and sneak my beloved Apple Mac up my shirt.

On arrival at Edinburgh Airport, it was very late, dark and wet. I was tired, anxious and dry.
I still had about 25 miles to drive to my hotel after collecting the hire car.I phoned the hotel to say I would be late and started on my journey.

When I eventually arrived at the hotel, which shall remain nameless, except to say it was named after the Scottish equivalent of Robin Hood, it was in the middle of nowhere, and in complete darkness.
I was not too concerned to begin with, as I had phoned them, but after 20 minutes of banging on every window in the place, I was beginning to get a little panicky. My phone had no signal, so I could not call them, so my survival skills kicked in and I drove my car as near as I could to the front door, put my hand on the horn, kept it there and waited.
I did not have to wait too long. A couple emerged from round the back, adjusting their clothes and a few more people came out to see what all the fuss was about. I was led to my room, miles down a long corridor in a nearby annexe. There was no apology, just a "Well, you couldn't have been waiting long or we would have heard you."
I think I was the only person staying there. I checked out in the morning and decided I would find somewhere a little less like the Bates Motel to stay for the remainder of the week.
All was well until my return journey. The flight was delayed, this time by 2 hours. Due to a spot of rain apparently over a house somewhere in London.
The flight itself was fine, apart from the pilot's unnerving sense of humour, which went something like; " Good evening ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this ... Sorry for the delay in take off, but we broke the last plane and had to look around for another. Luckily we found this one."

I arrived just after midnight and decided to call the car park on my mobile to ensure they could collect me.
Unfortunately this distraction led me to miss the sign pointing to baggage collection by about two feet.
Now I am all for airport security, but I had smiled at the guy on the desk as I walked past him and still had my boarding pass in my hand, so there could be no possible doubt that I had come off the plane. He just happened to be the 'Jobsworth' that we all know and love and flatly refused to let me through the gate to collect my bag as I had walked past it.
Following my utterance of words that have only previously been heard in the film The Exorcist (I think I probably resembled Regan in appearance by this point too), I narrowly missed being arrested and stomped off to find some help. An hour and a half later, having gone through security yet again, this time with the added bonus of being frisked by a particularly masculine looking woman, they eventually released my bag and I picked up my car and continued on my journey.

And the wonderful thing is, I am doing it all again next week!

2010-06-07T01:46:00.000-07:00

Now you may not be aware of this, but I own a farm. Or should I say owned. By the time you read this it will be all over. I am a ruined woman. I can't go on any longer.

It all began when I was working on my final assignment for this year for my psychotherapy degree.

Facebook was running on my laptop as I was working, just in case any of my friends should be in need of an urgent chat, and then, out of the blue, I was offered a farm. Well I jumped at the chance, especially, being a lover of the outdoor life. I saw it as a new opportunity to show off my gardening skills, especially following my recent disasterous efforts with my small plot of land in the village.

But this farm has taken over my life. It started innocently enough, as these things often do. I excitedly ploughed a couple of fields and planted some seeds, harvested my first crop of soya beans and began to feel my skills were being recognised. I had a couple of friends offering me cash to use on my farm and even gifts of trees, sheep and pigs. I really came into my own when asked to look after a couple of stray horses that had wandered onto my farm, having always been an easy touch for wandering stallions.

Anyway, before I knew it, I started getting more and more requests, some of them downright impossible to fulfill. It was Helen needing a spare plank of wood here, Nathan, a horse blanket there. I don't believe him to be a real friend at all, just after my extra bricks if you ask me. And what do I get in return? A lousy nail or two, that's all. I am up at the crack of dawn, tending their crops, scaring crows from their farms and feeding their chickens, but ask for a pair of gardening gloves and they are nowhere to be seen. So I have had enough. I can't get any other work done, my assignment remains unfinished, I haven't time to write or even go to the beach. My life is not my own any more. All I hear is "Would you like to send a gift to Harry?" "Would you like some of Charlotte's left over goats milk?" "Would you share your hard earned fuel find with Lindsay?" Well no, quite honestly I wouldn't! Enough is enough, I am selling up.
Well perhaps I'll just check that the cows are ok first...

Postcards from Norfolk?

2010-02-13T00:06:00.000-08:00

So what is the difference between a rook, a jackdaw, a raven and a crow? Answers on a postcard please. Or should I say email.
Whatever happened to postcards? We don't even send them from our holidays now. Not that I ever did. I could never understand why anyone would want to spend time on a long awaited break, carefully choosing and writing postcards to people who, I can phone or visit, should I wish to contact them, which I probably don't - hence the holiday. I certainly don't want to let them know where I am!

Anyway, not really that important - the avian question, that is. Whatever the species of our feathered friends, one of the little buggers keeps building a nest in my chimney. And they do it so quickly. If Barratt could work that fast, the housing crisis in the UK would be over in days. The Big Issue would go out of business. This weather is far too warm to light a fire every day and I cannot even contemplate going up a ladder to the roof, (oooh reminds me of the old Supremes song).
Talking of the Supremes, I was thinking the other day of when I was a teenager. (I know, amazing how far back we can remember isn't it?)
What sparked it all off, was listening to the radio and the concerns bands have about internet downloads of their music.
How things have changed.
We used to go off to Coventry Theatre on a Saturday afternoon and saw such amazing groups (as they were called then) as Status Quo (with short hair and quiet music), The Kinks, Supremes (complete with Diana Ross), The Hollies, Love Affair, Troggs to name but a few, and all for 5 bob. Yes, that's 25p. We would be armed with posters, lovingly made from rolls of wallpaper using brightly coloured felt pens, all declaring our everlasting love (usually lasted about a week) for that particular star. Afterwards we would charge round the back of the theatre to the stage door, hoping to catch a glimpse of our idols. Our hopes were pinned on them, catching sight of us, falling in love instantly, with all thoughts of their current girlfriends/ wives expelled from their minds for ever. I actually grabbed a chunk of the hair from one of the Kinks, in a moment of passion. Come to think of it, he didn't look too pleased, although I interpreted his expression as adding to his mean and moody look at the time.
Talking of mean and moody (these links are flowing thick and fast today aren't they?), I think the dustmen of Great Yarmouth win the prize for the meanest this week.
Now I, like my neighbours in the village, have two wheelie bins. There is a green one for plastic bottles, anything that comes through my door that isn't a letter (my interpretation not GYBC's) and cardboard. The black one is for general household rubbish, but not food waste. There are a variety of other rules attached to this waste disposal business, but too many to go into now.
Suffice to say that I have to move the bins every time I want to get to and from my front door, and apparently we are shortly to have a new arrival soon, meaning I will probably have to use the back door to enter my own property.
Now, this would not be so bad if the dustmen, or sanitation engineers, to give them their politically correct title, would empty the damn things.
There are four of them who visit once a week. One drives the truck, one looks in the bin to see if I have sinned by sneaking in some rubbish that I shouldn't, moving the bin two inches forward to assist his colleague who pushes the bin onto the automatic lift to empty it. The fourth, well I am not quite sure what he does, maybe takes notes and inserts the yellow or, in particularly criminal households, red cards into the handles.
So when I noticed my green bin had not been emptied for several weeks, I decided to take drastic action - this in my case taking the form of my getting up before 7am, lying in wait behind the curtains and at the appropriate moment running out, still in my pyjamas and slippers, and chased the neglectful and rapidly absconding man up the road, shouting "Oy you" as I went. When I eventually caught up, I was subjected to a grilling that would have put the KGB to shame. He looked at me as if I was a naughty child (I expect it was the princess pyjamas), sucked in his cheeks (thought only car mechanics did that) and proceeded to ask me what I had been putting in the bin that could have led him to his choosing not to do his duty.
Eventually, he gave up on this line of questioning and we looked together. Seems, I had offended by putting some plastics bottles (acceptable) into the bin in a plastic carrier bag (not acceptable). And on top of that, the most heinous crime of all, I had not turned the bin through 45 degrees so that the handle was conveniently placed for easy access to man number two.
And the funniest part of all, when I told my neighbours this sorry tale, they all nodded knowingly and glowed with pride at their apparent godliness in the bin department.
I obviously have much to learn about village life.

Mellors and the 'Wets'

2010-01-23T01:54:00.000-08:00

I am writing this quietly because I don't want Mellors to be upset again this week.
Now I am not saying Ingrid wasn't lovely. She was from 'Sveden' and I think this may have led to a few communication problems, but, to be fair, she did her best.
For example, when she asked if we had 'done the vermin', Mellors stopped shaking for a minute to look at me with disgust. "Yes," I said proudly, to ensure his self esteem remained intact, "Mellors takes care of any mice."
Then I realised she was asking me if he had been wormed. Not the most dignified of procedures at the best of times - the nightmare administration of the tablet (pre Marmite idea), followed by the flying leap through the cat flap a couple of hours later, and a lot of frantic digging, soil scattering everywhere, to cover up the embarrassing...
Well, I am sure that's probably enough detail, you get the idea?
So, we left the 'Wets' about an hour later, Mellors having got back in to his transporter basket a damn sight quicker than it took me to get him in it earlier that morning. We both cried all the way home. Mellors, because of injections, thermometers and and the general trauma of the whole experience, me because I was wondering how I was going to pay the bill - not so different from the size of a small mortgage.
Suffice to say, Mellors and the 'Wets' has never been a match made in heaven.
On top of all this, he is now on a special diet, the cost of which probably exceeds Gordon Ramsay's finest menu selection. I can tell you, the 'F' word was not far from my lips either.
It did cross my mind on our way home that there might be an alternative to funding this diet. Well to be really honest there was more than one alternative, but you may think me heartless if I told you my initial thoughts.
We passed a butchers shop in Great Yarmouth with a big sign outside advertising 'Chitterlings and jot.'
For the offally unaware of you out there, chitterlings are pigs intestines, and there are 4 types of cows stomach called reed, weasand, honeycomb and jot. Now I prefer the outsides of animals if I eat them at all, but you never know, Mellors might enjoy. I mean, if he can eat mice with such relish, who knows?
I was going to attach a picture of the offending innards but I thought I would spare you and offer instead a picture of Mellors relaxing and carefree, all thoughts of needles far from his mind.
While he recovers I thought I would share with you that the receptionist at the 'Wets' (Broke patient confidentiality) and told me they have another cat on their books called Mellors! I think he may have a relapse if he finds out, so can you keep it quiet for now?
P.S. According to an article in The Independent, Great Yarmouth is one of the few places left where you can buy such delicacies as Chitterlings, which are becoming more popular in these difficult financial times. Think I'll stick with the fish and chips and donuts!

Never mind the Quality...

2010-01-06T03:11:00.000-08:00

It wasn't long before the seasonal peace was shattered.
The familiar low growl, the simultaneous opening of back doors and the threatening cries of "Get in here now!" rang out across the village.
For me, this was quickly followed by a feeling of smugness. A bit like the feeling you get when you see your child on stage for the first time in the school concert, even if they only have a non speaking role as a plant stand or something. This maternal glow came about because it suddenly dawned on me that Mellors was standing right behind me in the kitchen and looking a little startled at my accusatory outburst. This could only mean one thing - there is another cat around. It sounded, from the safety of my kitchen as if Sally's cat next door had put up a good defence. Mellors looked up at me, in true manly style while glancing nervously at the door, as if to say, "You know I would be out there like a shot, but it sounds like it has been dealt with."
I think he is losing his touch.
I think I might be losing my grip on reality too since I have been back. I have always loved Alice in Wonderland (the story that is), However I did not think that when I put on the DVD for Abigail over Christmas, she would want to watch it continually. I counted at least six showings. Very strange film, it seems now, although as a child it seemed perfectly acceptable to me. I am so glad she has such good taste, like Grandma.
So when everyone had gone home after a lovely family Christmas and New Year, I thought I would do a bit of tidying up and home making.
On my boat this involved no more than a quick wipe of the sink with a damp cloth, lifting Mellors from the bed, brushing it down, brushing him down and putting him back again.
A house, it seems, takes a little longer, and costs more. So I thought I would summon all my creativity, and save money at the same time.
Not for me the expensive artwork from Ikea. No, I decided to buy some frames and pop in my own photos of the local area.
Now I know this is unusual for me but I got distracted.
I opened the cupboard to get out the hammer to put up the pictures and came across the bag with the orange and strawberry creams from the Quality Street tin. Do you remember, the tin of Quality Street that I had to buy to get a tin to put the mince pies in that I had made?
Well of course, I managed to eat most of the chocolates, but I never have been able to stomach the fruit creams.
I had lost the bit of paper with the different flavours on, long ago, so all the soft centres now have thumb prints in, just to make sure no hard centres escape my ingestion.
Would you believe I went to the village post office the other day and had a long and heated discussion about this very issue. Even harder to believe - they actually like the soft centres! So I am off to donate my left overs to show my appreciation for this valuable village facility. They do have some strange tastes in Norfolk.
On my wal;k there I had another idea for creative decor - a floral display. Now all I need is some sand. Any ideas where I can get some from?

Home for Christmas

2009-12-23T14:54:00.000-08:00

...Well I never thought I would be, and it feels good!
The village is looking lovely with Christmas tree aglow on the green. Houses using a years supply of electricity in two days on displays of lights that would put Disneyworld to shame. Hundreds of people with vacant expressions and long lists walkng aimlessly around the supermarket in search of more of anything that might possibly run out in the one day that the shops are closed. And I love it.
Mellors is getting excited too.
The trauma of getting him off the boat, into the cat basket and across the lock, far behind him now as he smells the ham cooking and awaits the inevitable spillage of food during my, often failed attempts to emulate the goddess that is Delia. It doesn't seem to matter what food, anything goes as it is even more attractive to him when stolen from under my nose.
He has settled in very quickly and has not yet stopped purring. He has taken up his place in the window, watching and waiting for his old enemy, the cat next door to appear. Their relationship, as with most of Mellor's relationships was always a little troubled. They would take it in turns to sit in the middle of each others back garden paths, preventing the other from entering the house.
All has been reasonably quiet so far, but hoses are primed and at the ready on both sides of the fence, in preparation for the inevitable battle.
I have had a few comments about my remark in the last blog, re the village chip shop. I have to say, I take it all back and offer my apologies. I treated myself to a very delicious skate and chips the other evening, one of the best meals I have tasted in a long time.
So, snow on the ground, a full fridge (And drinks cupboard), family and friends around - all is well with the world.
I wish you all a peaceful and happy time and look forward to an even better 2010.

p.s. the picture is the sand dunes not the Alps.

x Tillie x

On Dry Land

2009-12-07T11:49:00.001-08:00

Surprisingly, I have had many requests to continue 'blogging' even though I am now a land lubber. I guess this may mean I will lose some of my canal dweller followers, although I hope not as I would like to keep in touch with what is happening on the water. You can take the girl out of the Grand Union, but you can't take the Grand Union etc etc.
I moved Argy to his final (for the moment) resting place and, true to form, he put up a fight to the last.
It was a very windy day, but that does not come close to explaining, how, when I untied the ropes, Argy did an extremely swift turn around and headed off in the opposite direction, leaving me, hanging on for dear life, my feet getting nearer and nearer the edge of the cut, sliding rapidly through the mud as if in a losing tug o'war team.
I managed to hang on however, it is surprising what strength you can muster in a crisis. After a few choice words, (not for publication) I leapt on his rear end like a seasoned rodeo rider, took control of the tiller for the last time and promptly burst into tears.
These last few weeks have really taken their toll on my emotions and I don't think I realised, quite how much I will miss the canal life.
I soon had to pull myself together however to narrowly avoid hitting a group of canoeists who had also decided to venture out in the force nine gale, and were managing with slightly more difficulty than I was,to travel in a straight line that day.
I am now wondering if there is a collective name for canoeists - a scull maybe?
I digress, unusual for me I know.
Anyway, it was back to the car, or rather two cars, as both Kerry's and mine were loaded up to the roof with what seemed,to have expanded overnight, from a few possessions into a houseful.
We set off for Norfolk with the beautiful Abigail in her child seat looking nervously at the massive towers of saucepans, clothes and books which surrounded her.
And where on earth did all those coat hangers come from? It is a well known fact that they breed in wardrobes and I think the canal must be a particularly fertile place as they seem to outnumber my clothes by at least two to one.
So, my tenant from hell hell is over and I am back in Nelson's country.
The people are still as welcoming, the skies still as big, the sunsets still as magnificent and they still haven't changed the fat at the village chip shop.
I am certain there will be many more tales to come.

An awfully big adventure

2009-10-16T06:22:00.000-07:00

As I approached the lock on foot, windlass in hand and sweating profusely, I heard the two elderly ladies, one a wheelchair user, chattering excitedly.
"Are you bringing your boat through?" one of them asked.
I resisted the temptation to say something rude like, "Well, no actually, I spend most mornings walking along the towpath, opening lock gates,dressed in a coat that is much too warm, just for the fun of it." They would have been so disappointed and I realised, especially as we had been practising empathy skills at college the previous weekend, that they, like most Gongoozlers*, were fascinated by what they were about to see.
So I forced a smile and just said "Yes."
"Oh good, then we'll wait." the upright one said, getting out a flask and sandwiches.
I felt obliged then to hurry, but knowing from past painful experiences (remember my little swim?) that it is never a good idea, I decided to take my time to ensure no accidents occurred.
I had seven locks to go, not so easy on your own. I wanted to savour this journey which was the start of my planned cruise to move Argy to where he is to be sold. The fresh smell of the water swirling rapidly around the base of the lock gates always reminds me of the smell of newly laundered clothes. I wonder how they re- create that perfume in washing powder?
It has not been an easy decision to sell my boat and there are many reasons that have led me here.
It could have started when I took a shower in a hotel recently, my first for a couple of weeks, and as I undressed, a huge dead spider fell out of my hair. I had no idea how long it had been there.
Or it may be that the 'tenant from hell' is definitely on the move very soon and I need to reclaim my house for a while.
Perhaps it is the thought of the canal freezing again this year and the long walks to carry water and shopping back to the boat.
It is of course more complex than any of the above, as those of you that know me, well understand.
These last few years have been amazing and although I feel sad about losing the shell that has protected and comforted me so well on many occasions, I hope Argy will find a new owner who will firmly take charge of him and his quirky ways.
It has been an awfully big adventure, and I can't wait for the next one.
So, it's goodbye for a while from Tillie Baker's Canal Tales - but I will keep you posted.
Watch out Norfolk - who knows I may be writing about a village not too far from you very soon.

*A gongoozler is a person who enjoys watching activity on the canals but do not actively participate.

Which Way Now?

2009-09-16T13:44:00.000-07:00

Even I would find it difficult to get lost on the canal. Now the road - that's a different matter. I have always needed a little help in that department as my family will, I am sure, confirm after having passed the Eiffel Tower several times on a Sunday afternoon drive.
Some of you out there on dry land may remember the sad passing of 'Roada', the satellite navigation device I did not always get on with.
I always thought of her as being a bit of a girl about town, with very little interest in the job in hand, which was trying to keep me on the straight and narrow as it were. I often imagined that she was doing her nails or carrying out some other titivation, especially on a Friday night when there was a definite delay in her responses to my inputting a request for directions.
Her insistence on my constantly performing U turns was at best irritating, and I sometimes felt she was completely unbalanced. This became more apparent one day, when I pressed her buttons during a short journey to Hounslow, only to hear her say, I had 1,675 miles to go to reach my destination. I knew then,that she was not long for this world, and sure enough, shortly after this, she passed away and I returned her to her final resting place, the waste bin at Curry’s,Uxbridge.
All was not lost however. I replaced her with the super efficient ‘Maggie' - a lady who is definitely not for turning. Maggie is different altogether and, like me at the moment, does not have the distraction of a social life on a Friday night. As yet, she has not let me down, but I will keep you informed.

Jumpers - What in this weather?

2009-09-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

We have fleas!
Well, strictly speaking Mellors does, although I realised if I did not do something quickly, things may develop into a more serious problem and I may have to jump ship. Having done this before and not wanting to repeat my involuntary swim, I set off for the local pet shop to see what I could find to treat our little visitors with.
Remembering a past infestation, when I lived in a rented house, (I won't say where, as I am not entirely sure I conquered the problem before I moved out), I know that Mellors is not entirely keen on taking flea altering drugs, or even my using any topical applications on him. In fact, as you have probably gathered from my previous ramblings, Mellors is not keen on very much at all, apart from hunting, terrorising dogs, eating and sleeping.
I returned from the shop, my purse a lot lighter than when I set out, with tablets and a brush. I took a little longer than intended, having had a lengthy, and for my part unwanted conversation with the pet shop owner about her cat's constipation problem. I just don't understand people's eagerness to talk about thir pets most intimate bodily functions with such enthusiasm and detail.
Now I swear, as soon as I got back onto my boat Mellors sensed what I had in my bag.
I took a tablet out of the pack and crushed it between a folded piece of paper. He made a bolt for the door, but I was quicker. I then got out my secret weapon. Well, they say you either love it or you hate it - Marmite!
I squeezed some on my finger (yes it comes in squeezy jars now - what is the world coming too?) and pressed it down to pick up the crushed tablet.
Mellors looked suspiciously firstly at me, then at the closed door and finally at my finger. Sniffing at it, he could resist no longer. He licked enthusiastically as if his life depended on it, until my finger was clean - job done! And for those Buddhists among you, don't worry, no fleas or cats were harmed during the writing of this blog. The tablets don't kill the fleas, they just jump off and go in search of another host.
If only I could find the little devils. Now where did I put my specs?

How Was Your Day?

2009-09-04T01:48:00.000-07:00

Well mine was all about what my friend Jill calls 'Dorising.' I am presuming that has a capital 'D' and was named after a very clean, house proud woman called Doris - unless anyone knows differently? Maybe I will look on Wikipedia later - distractions, distractions!
Anyway, no tweeting, poking or blogging for me - this was a work day.
About once a week I need to take Argy to the water point to fill up his tank. This involves manouvres that cannot be achieved on a windy day as Argy, willful as he is cannot cope with even the slightest puff of wind without completely losing his sense of direction. I found this out to my cost the other day as I travelled sideways down the cut for about 200 yards before managing to regain control of him.
The water has to be got weekly as the tank is quite small and when getting near empty, the boat takes on a very definite lean to the left. (Is that portside?). This makes sleeping in my bed quite uncomfortable and disorientating and I have to bolster several cushions up against the wall to stop the feeling that I am sleeping on the North face of the Eiger.
When I get to the water point, assuming there is a space to park, I attach the hose to the tap on the towpath and put the other end into the hole on the front of Argy.

While filling up, I take the opportunity to wash my hair at the sink, an operation which takes a fair amount of water and balance.
I throw the rubbish into the skip and the next delightful job is to empty the portaloo.
I go into the little hut and the floor is swimming in what I sincerely hope is just water. I have mastered the art of holding my breath for the entire procedure. You do not, believe me, want to know any more detail than that.
So by now the water tank is full and I have to turn Argy round to go back to my parking spot.
This is the easy part as he is small enough to be turned with the ropes. A bit of swift lassooing goes on and providing I have remembered to remove the chimney pot beforehand, it is usually trouble free.
I need to charge the batteries further before I can start a 'proper' days work on my laptop. But before I can start the generator I have to change the oil. I would never have known this had the man in the shop not told me, as he sucked in his cheeks and shook his head (I thought only car mechanics did that). "You need to change it after every 50 hours use or you'll bugger it up, then we won't be responsible."
I didn't think he looked the sort to admit responsibility for anything, let alone the damage caused by my lack of technical knowhow and loving care for my genny.
I emptied the old oil into a very small container through an even smaller funnel and refilled with fresh, but when I went to put the petrol in the generator the can was completely empty. I had forgotten to buy some the day before. So off on a 5 minute walk to the car, petrol can in hand and I think I might as well take the washing to the launderette while I am out.
Two hours later, back on Argy, I had finally finished the chores I need to complete just to start the day.
I switched on my laptop, it was now about 5pm, and I am not really feeling like work now, so I think a cuppa might be nice.
Filling the kettle I try to turn on the gas and...nothing! I have to climb on to the front of the boat and fiddle with a spanner to change the gas bottle, lugging the empty one out on to the towpath, (they are not light even when empty) to take on a trolley to the chandlery for a replacement. The chandlery, by the way, for those of you who have not completely lost interest by now, is near where I got the water from that morning.
I eventually return to Argy around 6pm. Far too late to start work now, so I take that good book I have been meaning to read for ages, lay on the, now perfectly level bed, and I think I must have dozed off...
So, how was your day?

Waterfowl Sty (The clean version)

2009-08-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

The anticipation of finally retrieving my house from the clutches of the tenant from hell is reaching it's height.
This joyous occasion, when it eventually happens, also means I will not have to stay in any more hotels when I have work in Norfolk.
I am not saying Norfolk hotels are worse than anywhere else, in fact, if anything, I think there are a better breed of bed bugs there.
Now, don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the chance to shower or bath as I do not have these facilities on my boat. I expect my friends and family appreciate my hygienic efforts too when getting up close and personal, although I do think all this washing is a bit overrated.
One particularly bad experience recently was at an hotel in Walsall. Now please understand, I use the term hotel very loosely. When I arrived I was shown to a room right at the top of the building which absolutely stank of stale cigarette smoke.
I thought I could bear it, but after looking at the not very clean bed and the chipped mugs for the tea in my room, I decided to ask for a move.
I walked downstairs to the bar, and while I tried to make myself heard above the SKY Sports channel, I looked around and realised I was the only female there. This was a lorry drivers paradise.
Of course, the Manager said, with a slimy grin, I will show you to our Princess Suite. Three burly men fought to carry my case and I entered the palace.
Now I am still wondering how this room got it's name and which Princess might have stayed there. Maybe one who liked to mingle among the common people who appreciate the delights of broken and mouldy melamine furniture, smoke stained walls and leaky showers.
Maybe it was the Princess from the fairy tale who could feel the pea under 20 mattresses. There was certainly something under mine, but I didn't have the nerve to look and find out what it was. Still, musn't grumble - it was a four poster.
On a more positive note, the best hotel I ever stayed in was not a hotel at all, although I think it should be a 5 star rated one.
In a beautiful, peaceful village in Devon, Retreats For You is the ultimate in comfort, hospitality and relaxation.
You might still find a vacancy if you are quick. There should be one in every town.

Fame at Last!

2009-08-21T04:47:00.000-07:00

It is my great pleasure to inform you that Mellors is soon to become a published author.
He has had an article accepted by the magazine - Cat World.
I was wondering what all the secrecy was about and why, every time I entered my boat he quickly jumped down from my desk. Also I could not understand how my laptop could be still warm, having not used it for several hours previously.
I think his writing career began when he got a little confused with mice and mouse. chasing the cursor around my screen with his eyes as if it were a live creature.
Now the cat is well and truly out of the bag, or should I say the office?
I haven't actually seen the finished article yet so am a little concerned in case he has told any untruths about me and the devoted care I give him. He may still be bearing a grudge about me feeding the ducks with his food (see previous blog) - I hope not.
I believe his story is to be published in the November issue, so time will tell.
In any case I hope we don't have to wait too long because if Mellors continues to start fights with dogs as is his favourite pastime, he may well only enjoy posthumous recognition.

Getting All My Ducks In A Row

2009-08-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

You know when you start something and then feel obliged to carry on, even if you don't want to?
A bit like when you have some free time one day and you offer to take your elderly neighbour to the supermarket.
Before you know it, she is there, peeping through your curtains at 9am on the dot every Tuesday, saying, "Well as long as it's no trouble..."
Well that's a bit like what is happening on Argy at the moment.
You see I have found this lovely quiet spot on the Grand Union and when I first arrived here it was a real delight to feed the baby ducks. Often the ducks lose many of their young to the evil heron or well, I don't really know what else happens to them, but there are sometimes 6 - 8 in a family to start with and this can dwindle to nil.
It is so sad to see the Mum desperately trying to protect her babies and arriving with one less each day.
So I feel duty bound to feed them and make sure they don't die from starvation at least.
However things seem to have got a little out of hand. Argy seems to have become a renowned 'soup kitchen' for the entire duck population of England. I think there may even be a few asylum seekers in there too, as my research has shown that ducks don't like garlic bread so that may be why they have come 'over here.' A reversal of the usual migration theory.
Anyway it all started innocently enough with me giving them bits of bread that had gone dry, as a loaf can last me a week. No problem of course. Then I started buying duck food but that was a little expensive. Now they will settle for nothing less than Waitrose Farmhouse Multigrain, rejecting anything less for the 13, yes 13! huge carp to feast on, but that is another tale.
Occasionally, if I run out of bread, I put my hands over Mellor's eyes for a minute and throw in a bit of dried cat food, which they will tolerate at a push. If I am later than 6am in getting up in the morning, they peck and tap on the side of the boat until I give in.
it is not just a question of open the hatches and throw either. There is equality to consider. I have received strange looks from passers by when I have been shouting and trying to get the ducks to wait their turn and stop fighting each other. Manners they definitely do not have. It is every duck for himself as they swoop from a great height skimming the surface of the canal, quacking loudly and fighting off the little coot who has a nest in the reeds opposite. He or she is getting quite smart now though and when given the chance will grab some bread and take it back to the nest, head bobbing side to side all the way to check for muggers.
So I am now trying to get Argy listed in the Canals Good Food Guide (for ducks of course).
In the meantime, all this work does have it's payoffs. I am lulling them in to a false sense of security, making friends with them and seeking the perfect recipe for orange sauce ready for Christmas. Only kidding :)

A Rankin good day!

2009-08-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

People often ask how I keep dry on the boat? It does seem an odd question to me, but then, to be fair it is probably one I may have asked before getting the bug for boating. It seems to me these days it is only when I leave the boat I get wet.
Take today for example. Lovely day planned, you can just hear the Rugbian doom and gloom already can't you?
I had a full days work in Hammersmith so thought I would jump on the tube afterwards, travel to Brick Lane, one of my favourite places and see the Rankin exhibition. What could be easier.
With all this optimism, how come my life gets so complicated?
So I get off at Aldgate East, a five minute walk away from the Truman Brewery where the exhibition is held. The heavens opened and within, I kid you not, 2 minutes I was completely soaked through.
Not deterred, I squelched round the amazing show leaving a trail of water behind me, like an incontinent snail. The reception staff were helpful to a point, directing me to the toilets where there were a couple of paper towels, although they couldn't quite cope with the quantity of water that had soaked through every item of clothing I was wearing, including about a pint that had collected in my bra.
I also now know there is actually no such thing as waterproof mascara, apart from the time you actually want to remove it and can't seem to.
Anyway, I didn't stay as long as I would have like due to the feeling that pneumonia was setting in and I still had a half hour journey on the tube back to my car and a hour and a half drive back to the boat to face, in my new wet look clothes.
I even got a seat to myself with lots of space around it. Unheard of on the tube at that time of night.
By the time I got to the car, I knew I could not face the drive in the wet clothes, and guess what? The toilets were closed so I could not change into the spares I had in the car.
A less determined person would have given in gracefully to hypothermia at this point. Not this intrepid traveller! I was absolutely certain I could get away with changing in the lift if I kept my finger on the door close button.
With hindsight, had I known there were a group of stag night revellers making an early start, I may have thought of a different plan, still I did manage to change my skirt. The top was done quickly and discretely in the car while the car park attendant's attention was momentarily taken from the security camera by a driver asking if the toilets were open. (I refer to the answer I gave earlier.)
Still could be worse. The great Rankin himself could have been there to snap the, yet again soggy Tillie.

Beware of the Cat

2009-08-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

I am seriously thinking of getting a sign for my boat saying 'BEWARE - DOGS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK'
Of course dogs can't read, but I live in hope that at least some of their owners can. Unfortunately one dog with one not so careful owner recently caught Mellors on a bad day.
Not a difficult thing to do as I think Mellors has always had more bad days than good, as far as his temper goes that is.
On this particular day he must have been been especially grumpy or maybe his hormones were giving him some trouble. (Do cats have hormones?)
Whatever the reason, it is his life work, a work in progress, to protect my boat from all creatures great and small.
A tiny and very friendly puppy whose owner had obviously cut loose from her lead, decided to have a look in the well deck, I presume out of puppy curiosity.
Mellors, curled snoring on his cushion, had already started sharpening and flexing his claws. I leapt from my chair as I recognised the low growl that Mellors was emitting as not being a sign of greeting.
Before I could say "Get down Shep", there was a loud yelping noise (from the puppy I presume) and a very concerned dog owner had suddenly appeared from nowhere it seemed,(a little late if you ask me) and was demanding an explanation as to why I could not keep my cat under control.
I attempted a glare at Mellors, although I think it came out as more of a smile. The owner stormed off dog in tow, now on a lead that had miraculously and belatedly been produced from a pocket.
As the puppy shook his head in the distance, there was a splattering of blood flying through the air.
Mellors gave a satisfied purr, went back to sleep and calm was restored.

The Last Dog Watch

2009-07-30T13:22:00.000-07:00

One of the first things I did when I got my boat was to sit at the pointy end in the well deck, with a large glass of Shiraz and go through my diary.
One by one with a huge flourish, I crossed out all the pre planned work meetings I would no longer be attending now that I had left the rat race.
The other vital part of this ceremony of freedom from the constrictions of time, was to remove my watch, an item I had previously been quite unable to function without, and toss it with an even bigger flourish into the Grand Union Canal at Uxbridge.
I assume it is still there along with the many abandoned shopping trolley’s, guns, and even, as was found in the Stroudwater Canal, Gloucestershire a few years ago, a crocodile!
I also assume the watch has probably ticked it's last as it was never particularly reliable, giving up without warning at the first splash of water from an over zealous hand wash. Maybe even swallowed by the crocodile - Now I really am going into Never Never land fantasy, so I will leave you with an introduction to Mellors, my ginger cat, with a personality disorder, for whom the fun of the dog watch had just begun...

(The working day of a ship is divided into watches. The last dog watch being 6pm-8pm)

A soggy day for Tillie.

2009-07-25T01:24:00.000-07:00

Having just spent a wonderful week with Deborah and Bob at their Devon retreat (see www.retreatsforyou.com). I am relaxed and feel ready to impart to you the dreadful day when I almost met my watery grave.

I was glad to finally get out of the marina at Whilton. They certainly seemed a bad tempered lot there. I thought they were waving me off, but I would swear one man was indicating something very rude. Maybe it was a sort of special boater's wave that was not yet aware of, like semaphore. I tried to remember my brief time as a girl guide and then abandoned the idea, concentrating on getting up speed to about 3 miles per hour. I felt very relaxed and self assured.

After all narrowboating is not an extreme sport, what could possibly go wrong? Anyone can drive a narrowboat surely. And with my almost unblemished driving record... ok I know, so maybe I was a little overconfident.

I quickly began to realise that one of Argy’s little quirks was to pull to the right. What I didn’t bargain for was trying to un stick the throttle to slow down and at the same time get the gear into neutral or reverse as required. It all takes good coordination, (not my strongest trait) and sometimes leads the brain to confuse left and right on the tiller, especially when you are tired. (I had been awake with excitement at collecting my boat, most of the previous night.)

It is incredible how time seems to stand still and how many thoughts you can have in what must have been less than a couple of minutes.
The speed that the overhanging branch of the tree hurtled towards my head.
How warm the water was for the time of year as I sank deeper and deeper.
How dark it was in the depths of the Grand Union.
How the hell I was going to get my feet out of this deep mud they were stuck solidly in.
What is is really like to have Weil's Disease.
Oh and luckily, I somehow knew I must stay away from the propeller that was still whizzing round.
When I eventually came to the surface I still had my specs. on (both pairs).

I escaped my ordeal with a bruise (the size of Wales on my bum and a small graze on my hand. My mobile phone was still in my pocket and amazingly still worked although all my contact numbers were lost.

The other thing I lost was my dignity, although I did gain something much more important on that fateful day - a real respect for the possible dangers of narrow boating.
Something that has stood me in good stead ever since.

Still in not so sunny Devon at the wonderful 'Retreatsforyou'...

2009-07-21T11:19:00.000-07:00

...and pondering on the meaning of life, led me to recall when I collected Argy Bargy and my baptism of water as I tried to master 'him' and his quirky little ways.
But first a little about how I chose him in the first place.
As I guess most of you female readers will understand, I did not give more than a passing thought to what was in the engine room, or any of the other techie stuff involved with buying a boat.
The colour of the paintwork was not bad, it looked similar to the narrowboats that dreams are made of and inside was sort of open plan, which was just what I wanted in order to convert it to a suitable study where I could be inspired to write and work. Above all, it looked 'cared for.'
So it was not until I came to manouvre out of the marina at Whilton that I realised I had taken on quite a handful.
The bit at the back where I stood to operate the tiller was extremely small compared to the only other boat I had ever driven. The tiller was very heavy to turn and the thingy that increases the speed, a sort of cog wheel with a handle on, was very temperamental and stiff. The gear handle which is on the floor which is up for forward, down for reverse and in the middle for neutral also took a little mastering, especially with my very un boaty shoes. I am sure the other occupied boats in the marina feared for their vessels as I bumped and scraped out of there, apologising profusely as I went.
And so, it gradually dawned on me that Argy was not going to be an easy ride.

What's in a name?

2009-07-20T05:58:00.000-07:00

When I first bought my small narrowboat, in November 2006, I never imagined I would be living on it alone. Without a man to do all the practical tasks, especially the ones that require sheer brute force.
However, circumstances have led me to this now 'lone' journey. So here I am, enjoying almost every minute of this, sometimes extremely challenging lifestyle.

'Argy Bargy', the name chosen by the original owners, was, I planned, to be quickly changed to 'Tillie Baker's Study.'
The place where I would be inspired to write my first book, take amazing photographs and become a renowned psychotherapist.
The name remains Argy Bargy, as boating superstition requires that a boat has to come out of the water to be renamed, otherwise - well I never did find out what might happen in that case.
However, the name causes a lot of amusement when holiday boaters sail past and it does now seem quite fitting for what has turned out to be, a wilful, naughty schoolboy of a boat.
As a proud new owner, I sailed away with confidence from Whilton Marina, unaware how quickly I was to find out just how wilful...