Grotbusters.

After a month of weekends where our attention has been required elsewhere (Employer got married, B turned thirty, and I went for an extremely long overnight bicycle ride with some friends) we finally got to do something sorely long awaited last weekend. We turned up at the boat and after throwing off the dust sheets we plugged the pressure washer in and hosed everything down to remove all the filthy black dust, a remnant from grit blasting which inevitably got past our aforementioned defences. It was a fuck sight quicker than using a hoover, and Becky made up a silly song that went along the lines of "I feel yachty, oh so yachty, I do" in honour of the strange sight of us doing something recognisably boaty to our vessel for a change. In a matter of moments it seemed like everything we’ve battled to achieve was finally revealed to us- a glorious, silver and white vessel, all the way from stem to stern (except for the anchor winch, I really must do something about that this weekend.)

My girlfriend is clearly mad, not only does she somehow put up with me most of the time, but also as soon as I’d done with pressure washing the topsides she grabbed the machine off me and spent the next three hours cleaning up the entire floor of our boathouse- her explanation was a reasonable one, that she didn’t want me walking filth back onto the deck, but I know that secretly she’s just as sick of all the bloody dirt as I’ve been and all that stable manager stuff has therefore left her with a weird compulsion to hose things down.

It’s a shame I can’t bring myself to use the pressure washer inside the boat as well because it’s dusty as hell inside too and it’s taking ages with a bucket and sponge- on the other hand, someone did suggest filling her up with water to see if she leaks, and I’m sure I’ve got a pump somewhere…