The H Factor

Life Got Cold – Girls Aloud, The Sound of Girls Aloud

In case you haven’t noticed, winter is fast approaching, and while you are all snuggled on your big sofa all toasty warm next to your gas fire with fake plastic glowing logs, please spare a thought for the poor woman who is experiencing the nightmare of Trying To Keep A Boat Warm.  Also you should probably spare a thought for homeless people and old people who can’t afford to turn their gas heater on at all, but for the purpose of this particular blog, let’s just keep it all about ME, shall we?

So, previously I have only ever spent time boating in the summer months, and I am rapidly discovering that keeping the boat warm enough so that I’m not continually shoo-ing penguins away from the door is no mean feat, let me tell you.  Oh all right then, I will.

The key to a warm boat is my wood-burning stove, a contraption that appears to be able to sense my fear and fuck me over accordingly.  The stove lives at the front of the boat, whereas my bed is at the back; and because the boat is 60 foot long, it takes approximately seven weeks for the warmth at the front to make its way down to my sleeping area.  Thus each morning begins with gauging to what degree my breath is visible, followed by a 20 minute getting –up preparation phase involving sticking various limbs out from under the 55-tog duvet to help them acclimatise.  If I can’t feel them after five minutes, I know that I’m in for a rough morning.

The obvious next step would be a hot shower, but sometimes life just isn’t that nice.  Hot water is only available once the engine has been running for about 90 minutes, thus my day begins by turning the engine on, putting the kettle on, warming my hands over the gas stove until I can feel my fingers, putting on every item of clothing in my wardrobe (plus mittens), then attempting to get the wood burner going.

I have always been mildly amused at how men are with fire.  Barbecues, open fires, bonfires, campfires – back off ladies, this is proper MEN’S work.  It’s a caveman thing, clearly; men make fire, women do washing up and blowjobs, ideally simultaneously.  Sometimes you just have to let the boys have their fun, so I’ve never really got involved with fire making.  How hard can it be, right?

Well, it’s bloody hard, because I have different types of wood in different sizes, some of which is kindling and some of which isn’t even though it’s smaller and LOOKS like it should be, as well as some kind of coal that is allegedly smokeless (no idea how that works).  In addition the stove has several air vents that I have to twiddle to the right combination of settings, and then of course I have to remember that a fire requires NURTURING, and you can’t just build a bonfire of combustible items, squirt it with paraffin and stand well back.  I can’t let the fire get too big, but if I let it get too small it goes out.  And of course I get distracted by work and forget about it and before I know it the fire has gone out and the fucking penguins are flocking, and then I have a little cry and start all over again.

As an added bonus, before I can even THINK about striking a match, I have to clean the glass on the stove door with a combination of washing up liquid and scrubbing.   It gets all black from the smoke inside, you see (or not, as the case may be), and this being my mum’s boat, dirt is not acceptable in any way.  IF I made a good fire yesterday that burned hot and happy, cleaning the glass will take 5-10 minutes, but if the fire was too hot or burned too close to the glass or the vents weren’t set properly or the fire JUST DOESN’T LIKE ME TODAY, cleaning the glass can take anything up to an HOUR AND A HALF.   Thus the stove has actually found a way to punish me for slapdash fire management skills.  How shit is that?

You know what?  I need a holiday, which is why I’m going to San Francisco on Wednesday to spend eight whole days with my lovely friend Anna.  Those of you who read the Guardian TV liveblogs will know exactly who she is, and those of you don’t should read her fabulous and very funny blog.  I met Anna a couple of years ago through the blogosphere (too much use of the word `blog’, we need to find a new one), and when we were a bit squiffed one evening she took me to a pub in London to meet her colleagues at The Guardian.  I am quite sure that if it weren’t for Anna (and the courage-giving power of gin) I would not be doing what I’m doing today, and as an added bonus I now get the opportunity to visit a city I have always wanted to see, and spend time with someone I like very much.

Which of course reminds me that life is really pretty good, and then I think about the old and homeless freezing people and realise I should probably stop bitching about my cold feet.  Sometimes perspective sucks.