Last Day of Annual Leave:Booze Ban Jan. and Diet, Day 12...

Tomorrow I'll be back at the Hole-Making Shop, carefully making holes under the watchful gaze of Past-Master Guild members. Actually, I'm on indirect supervision now, so rarely bother my superiors unless the material presents in an awkward way.

Today, however, was FUN!

After the now usual (and soon to be sadly curtailed) sleep-in, I spent a merry morning at the lock fishing some very large lumps of wood out of the oggin.

Two substantial logs, what looks like an inattentive boat owner's gang plank and another less substantial plank had been washed against the sluices at the weir by the recent strong stream. (The river is in spate as a result of snow-melt, rain and The Cam Conservancy lowering the river above Jesus Lock to carry out some maintenance). A fair bit of pushing and shoving of the various bits was required, (using a punt pole similarly salvaged from the Cam last summer) to manouvre them to the shore where they could be grabbed. Having safely squirreled my salvage away in Pippin's Stealth Woodpile, I returned to the boat with that satisfied 'job done, good effort/result' feeling, even if I WAS perspiring rather freely, in the way that rather overweight middle-age blokes do when pressed to unaccustomed and hard exercise.

Time? 12.00 noon.

As I sat, steaming gently while I recovered with a restorative glass, (of fizzy water, before you ask) She Who Instigated the Diet informed me that our favourite author, Jasper Fforde, was doing a book signing at Heffers in Cambridge, and could I be shaved , showered, changed and ready in twenty minutes?

No problem! (Once I'd got my breath back, at least...)

I have really enjoyed all of Jasper FForde's work, and the idea of actually meeting him in person was very appealing.

He did not disappoint. He must have been absolutely knackered, having returned from a promotional tour of the USA the day before, yet was a pleasure to meet. As he signed our books and had a bit of a chat, (as he did with all the people who had turned up to meet him and buy a copy of "Shades of Grey"), we both felt that 'here was a bloke you could sit and have a beer with': nothing of the haughty artiste, but a lively, engaged and engaging mind, clearly cradle to a superlative imagination and gift for story-telling.

Anyway, don't take my word for it, go out and read his books! Start with 'The Eyre Affair'.

This pleasing interlude concluded, Jackie and I crossed the road to a newly opened branch of the "Cote" chain of bistros for a treat.

Steak Frites!

Yes, yes, I know this doesn't quite fit in with the general idea of The Diet..... But it was Jackie's idea..... It would have been rude to say 'no'....And I paid.....

Actually, I didn't have my customary glass or two of Robust Red with it, so Booze Ban Jan. remains inviolate. Also, if you get to feeling martyred and resentful while eating a bit less, it normally means you're going to fall by the wayside permanently. I feel that one should, occasionally, and sparingly, apply the 'A Little of What You Fancy Does You Good' rule. Such was the case here, and the food and service were excellent. They are also open for breakfast, and fellow Fforde OFficianados please note, they do Eggs Benedict...........

As we left the restaurant, we saw Jasper Fforde again, and we spoke once more, briefly and pleasantly. I couldn't help but think that he cut a rather solitary figure, clutching a red wheelie suitcase as he waited for his a cab to Cambridge station and the next fixture, (a talk and signing in Norwich in the evening), and ponder that life is indeed tough on the road, whether you are acting, stage-managing, or an author promoting your latest work.

I do wish we could have bought him lunch........

Anyway, we put our brush with literary fame to one side in order to deal with the rather more pedestrian problem of What to Do With The Ashes.

No, I haven't developed a sudden interest in Anglo-Australian Test Cricket, and neither is there anything more sinister going on in the Covering up of Serious Crime department....

No, the ashes in question are those produced in copious quantity by our wood-burner.

We have been emptying the residue from the ash-pan into the otherwise unused coal scuttle before disposing of it. Problem is the amount of dust this creates, as some ashy dust always escapes and floats about, smokily, to the point at which it can even set off the fire alarm.

This is a proper drag. Also, it can get into the computer and require expensive cleaning.......So, while in Cambridge, we went in seach of a solution.

After much trolling about from shop to shop, we lit upon the answer in British Home Stores. We now have a snazzy blue enamel bread bin with a close fitting lid which will soon have the word 'Bread' on the side replaced with 'Ashes' (or perhaps 'Cenerentola'!!.....but then again, perhaps not.....)

We've tried it and it works!!

Fen Tiger? Siberian perhaps....

James and Amy's blog mentions the apparent reappearance of The Fen Tiger.

Some interesting tracks appeared recently across our snow-covered and ice-bound inlet:



It's either the tiger, Tom Kitten having a touch of the Torville and Deans, or Miss Havisham's nemesis, Big Martin, or friend, The U.A of W Cat. (If this means nothing to you, see Jasper Fforde's series of books about the adventures of Literary Detective Thursday Next....)

The ice is still about an inch and a half thick, so Pippin isn't going anywhere soon.

Actually, we should be able to break out if things get desperate pump-out wise, as the ice has melted around all the boats in our little lagoon, so breaking it up wouldn't cause any damage to our or our neighbours blacking. But we're in no rush presently, so best to let nature and the warmer (?!) weather take it's course.

I've been busy in the wood pile as I'm on annual leave. (Hey, it's the nearest thing I've got to a shed, okay?) Large logs have been split into usable sizes, kindling has been made and many calories burned (Yes, Booze Ban Jan. has arrived with a vengeance.....).

I also managed to import this hibernating creature into the warmth of Pippin's interior, where it promptly woke up:



It was carefully captured and returned to winter storage in the wood pile. Lovely to see a reminder, if not exactly a harbinger, of Spring.

A Serengeti moment.........

Not quite a lone lion stalking a herd of Thompson's Gazelle, but we are in the grip of a recession.............

Christmas Album

Some pictures of the river and environs, oh, and some more purely gratuitous 'cute cat' shots.......





I took a trip into Cambridge to pump out before Christmas. James and Amy Duck tagged along to help with the lock and keep me company. It also meant that these two committed boaters could start their journey to a family Christmas in Devon via The River Cam with a trip upstream toward the bus station on a wide beam.

Apt, I thought...

Amy had a go at Pippin's helm:



She started to enjoy it after a bit.......



We all also took turns at photographing the snow-covered scenery on this loveliest of mornings:





We passed our riverside local.....



and poor old "Jester", now firmly ensconced at The Cam Conservators 'naughty mooring' at Clayhithe.

As you can see, it was freezing cold, but Pippin's fire roared in the wood-burner, and James soon had the tea and toast conveyor-belt running smoothly, so we didn't suffer unduly. (Although as it was James Duck toast, at least one slice had to be thrown overboard, presumably as some sort of burnt offering to appease the River Gods....)




We soon arrived at Baits Bight Lock. I was a little concerned that the control panels or hydraulics would be iced up, but all worked smoothly.




Having dropped the Ducks in Cambridge, I pumped out and set off for home. On the way, I saw these cormorants or shags congregating in this tree: It really reminded me of the crows in that scene in "Dumbo" when the flying pachyderm awakes, up a similar tree, having got rather sloshed on champagne the night before...........

And then, to end a perfect day perfectly, we rescued a boat!

Now, followers of this blog may be aware that Pippin only becomes 'The Mighty Pippin' when involved in good turn-type stuff, like defending friends, not mowing down novice rowing crews, generally helping out where possible, and towing to safety anyone who's stuck up the creek without a paddle, or, as in this case, gearbox......

Incidentally, while it has been pointed out that though all I share with Mr Incredible is the tummy he has before he gets back into shape, I do enjoy a spot of "Pippin To The Rescue!!!" type stuff.

Hey, it's a wide-beam thing........Just no capes, darlink, Okay?....

Anyway, a venerable cruiser had been stuck at the 48's at Clayhithe for quite a long time. As this is a favourite venue for those who deliberately overstay, it was small surprise to me when the owner told me The Cam Conservancy wanted him gone asap.
He had hailed me as I went past in the morning and asked for a tow to Bottisham Lock as his gearbox was busted. I'd agreed to tow him up to the lock on my way back. "Simple enough", I thought, "in line-astern straight up to the lock and moor up, then untie the tow and haul him in by hand. Easy-peasy!

Except he hadn't got a rudder either.......

Well, here's how we did it:

Pippin goes astern of the tow, tow is cast off from the bank, tow's stern line is passed aboard Pippin, I haul tow stern-first alongside, tow's owner jumps from his to my bow and makes fast, I make sternline fast to Pippin's rail.

It would have been a lot easier if the tow's owner had had some idea of boat nomenclature, though he was getting the hang of it by the end.

But I musn't be snooty. Everyone's got to start somewhere, even if this means at the front , rather than the bows............

Here's a couple of pictures:


As you can see, the tow's gunwhale was right in line to bash against Pippin's windows, but nothing daunted, we set off for the lock with the tow's skipper keeping the two boats a safe distance apart by the simple expedient of wedging himself in the gap between the two superstructures.

Now, before you all start writing comments about the extreme foolhardiness of such an action, let me just say that at no point was he going to fall between the two boats or get caught, crushed or otherwise damaged.

Okay?

Anyway, we got to the lock sans mishap, and Pippin executed a perfect Picard Manouvre to deposit the tow safely in the lock. I am pleased to say this was all done under the watchful eye of a neighbour who, some time ago, while watching me reverse Pippin out of our mooring, had the temerity to suggest that I might consider a handling course.......

Hah!!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all!

P.S.
James, your toast was more scoffed than scoffed at!

Either way, the one slice that was deemed inedible certainly did the trick with the Nymphs of Baits Bight Lock, which was with us in both directions.

Perhaps you stumbled on something last summer, aboard James and Emma's 'Kestrel', with The Emergency Toast-Jettisoning Incident.....!

I can see the sacrifice of The Ceremonial Flaming Slice becoming a Cam tradition.

Now, what to offer the dryads that inhabit The Trees That Remove Chimneys?......

By the way, I'm still having to add this comment as a P.S. as blogger still won't let me comment on my own blog!

It's frustrating. Any bright sparks out there got any ideas how to fix it?

It's been a long day........

I got back from a very hard day's hole making, (so busy on this late shift that I didn't get my 20 minute supper break...), to a very empty (Jackie in London doing T.V. world stuff) and incredibly cold Pippin. Soon got the fire lit, a beer opened and a sandwich made.....


Small problem.

Ou et le chat? Ne pas dans le bateau... Tiens! (Which had better be French for "sod it".)

Je donnez les Wellies Anglais, avec le seriously warm manteau de l'armee Suedoise, grabbed un assiette et un cuiller, et marchez dans le floodbank et crier "Tom! Tom!", et bangez dans le assiette avec le cuiller......

( Se Rappeller-vous, il est bloody cold avec une white frost, je suis knackered, et mourir de faim...)

Mais maintenant, dans le bushes, 'tinkle tinkle tinkle' from le petite cloche dans le neck de le chien disparu, et il est arrive.

[Edit following Amy's comment: Error line 17: For "chien" read "chat".......!]

Et maintenant, dans le bateau:



Phew.

Stealth Boat Maintenance.....

Twenty-six tons of bright blue wide-beam could never even remotely be considered stealthy, so it's the maintenance, not the boat, which has a stealthy element to it.....

I had a day off from my new and fab hole-making job today. Jackie had to be in London at silly o'clock to do some T.V. editing, so I dropped her off at the local station.

So, how to spend the day? Well, I read a bit, went grocery shopping, then took in Emmaus.

I bought some cork place-mats and an old Port and Stilton wooden box for £3.00.(We'll use this to house our supply of matches and fire-lighters safely....)

The place-mats, however, reminded me that sometime back in the early Thirteenth Century, I had bought a pack of cork floor tiles from Emmaus for the purpose of insulating the inside of our main hatch. (In winter, the lack of any insulation means a half-glass of really cold condensation drips down the neck of the first person to open the hatch in the morning.)



Time to resolve this problem.



An hour or so of cutting and tessallating the tiles to fit the inside of the hatch was followed by a manic glueing session.

It has all worked rather well.

Thing is, how long will it take Jackie to notice.......?

In Memoriam: Angela Nadine Witts: A life that taught.

My Auntie Angela died last week and the funeral was on Friday.

Angela was mentally handicapped. I should say "learning disabled", or "special needs", or something a bit more modern and P.C. However, I was born in the sixties, brought up in the seventies and that is what we called her then. To change now to a more fashionable description of her condition seems to me to somehow diminish her.

She was born with an abnormally high roof to her mouth that restricted the development of her brain. It was estimated that she had the mental age of an eight year old.

Auntie was difficult.

She was prone to sudden and profound rages, born, I think, not of malice or even of attention seeking (well, not all the time....) but more of an irremediable frustration at the world, its inexplicable complexity, and her own inability to decipher its codes, adhere to its requirements, or bend herself to its shape.

She challenged us. She tried our patience, perplexed us, and was a lifelong source of worry to my grandmother, and, latterly, very much so, to my father and mother.

The way they rose to meet those challenging behaviours says much of them, and all of it good.

For the last 22 years, after Nana Witts' death, the burden of care fell increasingly heavily on Mum and Dad.

Although Angela had been found a place in a block of wardened flats in 1979, (where she lived almost until her death), they not only visited regularly (an often thankless exercise) but also saw to her finances with a care and unimpeachable probity that our politicians should aspire to but won't, should achieve, but can never.

Their only thanks was an increase of the burden: as the withering of age compounded Angela's condition, they stepped up their efforts to the point where my now octagenarian father could go no more. It cost him more in pride, love, and care than lesser men would have been bothered with in the first place, to admit that Angela was beyond his ability to support, and that it was time for Social Services to take over.

They did their best in a difficult situation. Indeed, when four of Angela's support workers turned up at the funeral, I was impressed: not only by their attendance, but also by their calibre. Social workers get such a bad press. A bouquet for these from me though.

Angela died of age and weariness in hospital last Thursday.

In her life, she taught.

She challenged.

She tried us.

I learned of her, but imperfectly, tolerance, acceptance of difference, and most importantly, and least perfectly of all, patience.

Her leaving was quiet and fuss free, marked with such terms as "end of life care".

All that could have been done for her was, however, done.

I hope that now she is in a place where she is allowed a full flowering of a spirit denied in life: does a caterpillar know it will become a chrysalis? Does the chrysalis know of the butterfly it shall become?

Rest now, Auntie. No need to be cross any more. Stretch your new-found wings and fly.