Which Way Now?

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?

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?

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)

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!

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

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!

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.