The Narrow Boat Diary: The Story So far

Well, it's all kicked off today: Beyonce's thrown a fit over the washing up, so me and Des are keeping a low profile (not easy on a narrow-boat). With hindsight, it was probably a mistake to suggest to La Knowles that she might like to do her bit, especially after I had gone to the trouble of putting up a rota. And while we're there, says I, could she please not keep dipping into Mr O'Connor's houmous (bless; Des had been too polite to say anything). Life on the canals is about sharing and co-operation, I went on, and we'd all get a lot more out of the holiday if we each put a bit more in. I was, by this time, talking to her fast-disappearing rear and trying not to listen to her colourful, and very loud, response. This was a while ago: all three of us now going about on eggshells until things have calmed down. Northamptonshire continues to slip past at a steady three miles an hour, the dunk dunk dunk of our Kubota diesel engine and the gentle swish of reeds our only soundtrack.
More later
Fred

What's inside a giant's head?

Answer: not very much.

Shown here, backstage at Watford Palace Theatre, is a completely wonderful prop from our show, The BFG. Centre piece of ActII, this giant puppet is now a stately 18 years old, and still proving a wow with chidlers up and down the country. Given that he spends years at a time in a dark, draughty, warehouse with no other giants for company, I think he does pretty well. It falls to your correspondent keep to him in fettle.

Fortunately he's very low-tech, as you can see, and needs only the occasional tweak to keep him in shape. A major innovation for this tour is the inclusion of two 99p rubber balls to provide some suspension for his giant shoulders (inspired by production saloon-car racing techniques, no less) and swapping a few nuts and bolts for meatier items better suited to the rigours of ten shows a week.

He is operated by his human counterpart, who climbs up inside him during the second half of the show, straps himself in, and proceeds to walk away with a scene set in the ballroom at Buckingham Palace. The puppet's head, arms, legs and even his opening mouth, are all operated directly by the actor. As you may imagine, mucking about with stuff like this on a daily basis, for a living, with a bunch of exceptionally talented actors and technicians for company, is brilliant fun.

Hummous Du Jour

Earlier this year; working in Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, London, England, one of the most expensive places on earth. Here we see vats of mayonnaise, hummous, falafel, tabouleh and Lord knows what else being delivered to the very popular 'Maroush' all-night Lebanese restaurant. Like me in the Fibonacci-mobile, the lad shifting all these Tupperware numbers is involved in a day-long battle of wits with parking attendants and their machine gun ticket dispensers. A minute over your time? Ticket. A foot over the bay? Ticket. Shirt not tucked in? Ticket. Whistling a jaunty tune whilst unloading your vehicle? Ticket. Soon after this job finished I moved on to my new life, which is really my old life re-made, all shiny and new for 2009. It involves far less contact with traffic wardens and is brilliant fun. More later, and thanks very much for checking in.

Evidence

Just before the tree comes down, and the cards are binned, and 2009 is given a good hard stare, we see what Santa left under our tree. This is a Fly Classic Ford GT40 (Bucknum/Whitmore) slot racer, found on e-bay, arrived Christmas Eve. Fibonacci Minor assumed immediate control of this car, and quickly got its measure. It goes like stink. We have other cars in our collection, many of them. I think I'm supposed to keep them mint, boxed and un-raced but for what? Cars are meant to be driven, toys to be played with, and Fib Jnr and I raced good and hard throughout Christmas, the track taking up the entire living room floor. Few things are as painful under bare foot than a sharp, plastic, track support piece. Few things are as much fun as a 1/32nd battle fought and lost with your 11 year old son.

Hello sky, hello jet.

A clear, cold Sunday; late afternoon in Chiswick. Although the sun had begun to set the sky was still dazzlingly blue, and this jet made its way to where I wonder? Moscow? Tokyo? I like the way the Moon appears to bend the plane to its will. All those people nodding off in front of a six-month old Vince Vaughan movie, a warm glass of champagne in a plastic cup and a cleverly packaged meal-like meal in front of them, and me 37,000 ft below, pruning a wisteria, not quite duty-free.

William Morris Minor

Holland Park is just up the road. These are the leaves that fell on the pond in front of us, as we walked and talked, my son and I, two weeks ago, on a cold London Saturday with signs saying 'No cycling, no skating, no ball games, no smoking, no laughing, smiling, kissing, holding of hands, mirth, joy, light satire, heavy sarcasm, wit, greed envy or lust. Or sloth.'

They couldn't kill the beauty of these leaves 'though, so here they are.

Roast! Roast!

This joint had been cluttering up the ice-box for months. Whilst visiting Ron Combo in his Grappa Hell the freezer went on the blink and I came home to a fridge full of warm gin and this handsome, but inadvertently thawed, hunk of meat. I had to cook it or chuck it.

Beef being such a rare treat at Chateau Fib I took time to read the blood-soaked label and then knocked a full hour off the recommended cooking time, figuring I could always cook it for a bit longer if absolutely necessary. It wasn't.

The mustard you see is the especially delicious 'Moutarde de Charroux', and comes from Clermont Ferrand via personal courier. The beef came from Sainsbury's going-off counter and kept me going for a week. The leftovers are now back in the freezer, awaiting the advent of a Spong National Mincer from Unmitigated England's General Stores and Provisions(Online)Plc.

Shepherd's Pie anyone?