Bloggers' boats

We've only run into a couple of other boating bloggers on our travels so far. We met Bruce and Sheila when they overwintered at Great Haywood a year and a bit ago, then again on the Trent and Mersey last Autumn. And we chatted with Bones at Annie's tea rooms last summer. But that's it.

Yesterday we missed two and a half opportunities as we came down to Penkridge. NB Rock 'n Roll and NB Bendigedig were tied up on opposite sides of the cut within a short distance of each other. I was too surprised to think to stop and say hello to either, though I checked out their blogs later to make sure it was them. I suppose I'm a bit diffident about this sort of thing – but I also know how much I've enjoyed it when people who've read this blog take the trouble to introduce themselves. It's a funny old thing, doing the self-analysis to understand the balance between the confidence and the shyness in yourself.

And the half? That was a narrowboat called Briar Rose. Checking out the blog, it was apparent this was a different Briar Rose. Just as well I didn't stop to greet them – they'd have wondered what on earth I was talking about!

Out of condition

Well, we made it. Water tank full, diesel tank full, poo tank empty (almost). Sun in the sky, wind not too cold, a day for tee-shirts, dark glasses and sun-hats. Off we sailed, down the Staffs and Worcs and have tied up just past the Midland Chandlers depot at Penkridge. Very convenient as we need to get an extra centre line in the morning. Only down side is the M6 rumbling along about a quarter of a mile away. But my best beloved has recently taken to using ear-plugs at night to cut out the sound of my snoring, and the M6 rumble pales into insignificance beside that. For my part, I can sleep through almost anything.

My principal issue is going to be neck and shoulders, which are putting up a steady complaint after about 5 hours at the tiller. You'd think they would have let me know earlier, and we could have stopped sooner. But no, they waited until the last lock gate was shut behind us and the mooring ropes neatly tied to begin their whining. Now they are having a competition to see which can scream the loudest. Never saw this coming – better start an appropriate exercise regime.

Meanwhile, I have to decide on the best medicine. A couple of paracetamol, or a nice glass of red wine. Hm… So I put it to the medically-trained member of the partnership. And she said: "Both!"

Connections

A friend laughed at my joy over Erin Mae's TV/audio system when we were buying her 18 months ago. His father-in-law (a liveaboard at the time) would have reserved such enthusiasm for a vintage diesel engine requiring constant loving care. It wasn't so much the surround sound – haven't even got that at home. But there are certain things we enjoy watching together, and music has played a large part in our lives. Boating's rural idyll is all very well, but there are times when you want to watch some good Danish drama, or listen to whatever you listen to without the MacBook's speakers completely ruining it. Dolby 5.1 doesn't equal hi-fi, but it sounds pretty good to my somewhat impaired eardrums.

It depends in part on what floats your technological boat. Ever since I wasted homework time drawing transistor radio circuit diagrams, I've loved the magic of electrical connections and the systems they generate. So the most recent challenge was to connect the MacBook to Erin Mae's AV system. Amazon came up with a range of leads and adaptors, while Great Haywood's wonderful poste restante service saw them delivered locally. Today's appalling weather meant it was a day for jobs indoors, so I finished adapting the support for the TV we had brought from home, connected all my new connectors, and now we can listen to the iTunes collection or watch something from iPlayer in proper style. Mind you, an AppleTV added to the setup would do it all with even more aplomb…

The rest of the world of connections goes up and down. We've mislaid the charger for my best beloved's phone, and it's so ancient that neither Carphone Warehouse nor the man with the trolley-load in Stafford's shopping centre stocked one. Calamity! The device that provides Erin Mae's wi-fi works pretty well for the most part, but will occasionally suddenly decide to stop talking to the MacBook. But on the more human front, yesterday we met Philip and Hazel (nb Matthew Flinders, also based at Great Haywood) and found that Philip reads this blog from time to time. Nice to meet you guys. A good connection!

Fish and Chips

What is it about fish and chips, in the car, in a lay-by? It's a memory from childhood, six of us in a Morris Cowley coming back from holiday in North Wales. Don't know where the chippie was – don't even remember whether the newspaper contained fish to go with the chips. Just a moment of family togetherness two thirds of the way home. A pattern we often repeated, years later, with our own kids.

Coming back up to the Erin Mae on Saturday we thought we'd stop for food at the Harvester where the A446 splits from the A38. Should have known better.  They could seat us right away, but the food would be 40 minutes to an hour. Optimisitic, we thought. So we pushed on, thinking of a pub in Rugeley where we'd had some nice grub once. Then I said "What about fish and chips, if we can find any?" My best beloved's eyes sparkled like a Christmas tree and, yes, she thought she'd seen a chippie just by the traffic lights in Lichfield. Ten minutes later, armed with cod and chips and a couple of cans of diet Pepsi, we pulled over into a lay-by and tucked in. It felt like a midnight bean-feast. Who cares that it wouldn't quite have made Egon Ronay?

Losing it

So – about 3 grams lighter than I was yesterday, plus whatever was used up in nervous energy. It's slightly strange, one moment lying there, chatting about books with the man who's shortly to incise your incisor (well, molar in this case) and, the next thing you know, the magician's assistant is gently telling you the deed is done. While the magician himself is assuring you that the mouth won't hurt at all and to be sure to look up Ben Kane on Amazon.

Home we came, with my best beloved at the wheel and yours truly in less of a daze than expected. Being required to spend the day quietly has been a nice excuse to watch some snooker while doodling with database design on the laptop.

The blurb about the sedative said it could affect my memory today (don't sign any important documents, etc). Probably something I have to get used to, anyway! I know there's something I have to do now the tooth is out. Hm … oh yes, get up to Erin Mae as soon as possible, April having done its worst. Probably Saturday. Bring it on!

Push, pull and paracetamol

So when the time came, did that tooth want to come out? After three shots of local anaesthetic, and a great deal of pushing, pulling and waggling with implements that might not have been out of place in a Victorian midwife’s kit, the tooth stayed put. Dentist Mike confessed himself defeated, smoothed over the battlefield and handed me a batch of Tylex capsules to be taken “as required”, which he clearly felt they would be. Then he rang up a local oral surgeon, who I went to see this afternoon for a 10-minute consultancy about the next step.

While he was taking my blood pressure, he asked me what I had lectured in, and that led, by some devious route, to a discussion of all the historical novels we had read between us. I think we spent the next 20 minutes comparing notes about books and authors and checking out new ideas on Amazon via his consulting room computer.

Somewhere near the start of the conversation he decided to rearrange tomorrow morning’s schedule so as to deal with the offending item rather sooner than the two weeks suggested by the receptionist. So at 9 a.m. I shall go under, first sedation and then the scalpel. Provided we don’t spend all the time talking about Edith Pargeter.

Canal routes and root canals

I don't know why we're complaining. April is meant to be like this, and most parts of England need the rain. But it must be one of the wettest droughts we've had for a long time. Not to mention the hardest hail stones. So we do the next best thing to cruising – we plan. Out come the Nicholson's guides, and the route-planning websites are invoked to see how long it will take us to get to Chester in May.

Then I get tooth-ache – on our 39th anniversary of all days. Lower left back molar. Evening meal was a hesitant, jittery affair – food would insist on being chewed in that part of the mouth, and the flavour was no compensation for the nerves. We were actually going out for our celebratory meal two days later on a local Groupon deal (not that I'm miserly or anything). So, deciding the tooth was not going to subside on its own, I rang dentist Mike first thing on Monday morning and he, amazingly, was able to see me 40 minutes later. A large dose of amoxycylin, backed up by the usual tablets, meant we were able to enjoy the evening in style.

Unfortunately, Mike said the tooth was past saving. The infection in the root would re-occur, and he thought there was little point in trying to crown it (a subtle reference to my advanced age, I think). So out it will come. It's a wisdom tooth, no doubt more disposable that a top incisor. "If your eye offends you, pluck it out," says the Good Book, and I suppose the same principle must apply to teeth. But I'm not sure this was exactly what Jesus had in mind!

So it's back to planning canal routes, while I await judgment day on May 2nd. Just as well I've got lots to take my mind off the prospect.