Entry for Turtle

or:

11 reasons why my husband fucking rocks.

1) He genuinely appreciates how amazing my new polka dot vintage stilettos are.

2) He brings me home red roses.

3) He never ever judges me or makes me feel guilty about my behaviour, even when it is very bad.

4) He is a Fag Stag ©

5) He insists on sharing all the cleaning equally and always carries out chores like they’re fun.

6) He still fancies me after I vomit into a carrier bag seven times on the way home on a Sunday morning and end up whimpering in the street feeling sorry for myself with make up down my face.

7) In the novel he is writing, the female character wears my favourite outfits and he gets all the details right.

8) He has instilled a genuine love of football in me and has actually taught me the off-side rule.

9) He is happy to watch 28 Days Later with me, sometimes twice a week. And he doesn’t complain when I then (as predicted by him) keep us awake listening out for the New Breeds attacking the boat.

10) He always says yes to whiskey.

11) He goes in to work 3 hours late without booking the time off just so that he can come to the doctors with me and hold my hand for a minor procedure.

A typical day in the life of Captain Muffin.

(This is what life is like if you live on a boat, haven’t got a telly and have too fucking much to achieve before the winter sets in/the Apocalypse happens.)

• 6.30am – Alarm goes off. Moan at Turtle to make coffee. Drink coffee, bumble about boat rubbing eyes.

• 6.45am – Run up towpath to gym. Continue training programme in running and strength for forthcoming new breed zombie apocalypse. (Personal best time so far – 3 kilometres in 22 minutes, need to double that speed as well as distance)

• 8.24am – Pack onto commuter train to work. Attempt not to read propaganda wagon free-of-charge papers. Fail.

• 9.30am – Arrive in office. Look at images of craft objects, make coffee, gossip about people in the sector, create systems, research self sufficient, isolated living online, adjust project plan due to problems, file pieces of paper, discuss art, chase up images of contemporary craft objects, worry about New Breeds, have “catch-ups”, eat food, adjust project plan due to problems, create mail merge, leave office.

• 6.10pm – Pack onto commuter wagon home. Attempt not to read propaganda wagon free-of-charge papers. Fail. Discuss respective days with husband. Fall foul of non-Christian people hating as response to commute, sometimes to the point of pushing strangers in the back. Feel guilty.

• 6.45pm - Arrive back on boat. Drink neat whisky, (sorry Dougal, the Abour is being quaffed) smoke roll up, gossip with neighbours.

• 7.15pm – Put dinner on.

• 7.30pm – Sand rusting superstructure of boat, manually, ready for painting. (Must buy sander or it’s going to take fucking years).

• 8.30pm - Eat dinner.

• 9.00pm – Sand some more, perched on the gunwhales, get told by “helpful” passer by that we should be using a power sander. I know that matey, now fuck off out of my face.

• 10.00pm - Water plants, play some tunes with husband, gossip with neighbours.

• 10.10am - Check septic tank level and water tank level.

• 11.00pm – go to bed, comfort read some Irvine Welsh (Glue), snuggle.

• Midnight – Fall asleep, dream about new breeds.

These sweet little rings by an Italian artist just dropped into our inboxes as contenders for the show.... Cue much excited squeaking and animated discussion about the feasability of making wearable bonsai hats. *Sigh* I'm really going to miss this job....

On this grey Monday morning, with a body and soul battered from the weekend there is nothing more tempting than this.

Honestly, sometimes all I want is some hens, my husband, a gingham pinny and an Aga. Where once I fantasised over 4 inch heels and haircuts from the creative director, I now dream of a successful and fully stocked vegetable patch.

However, the weekend has been great fun and there is no way I am truly ready to leave the city yet.

Friday night consisted of sweet burner reunions, gifting glitter balls to gurning Kings Road trustafarian idiots, a top notch drum and bass set and a trip down the K-hole for some small, lively Scottish elements of our party.

The rest of the weekend was a snuggle affair, ensuring that our bodies remained well oiled with whisky and irn bru (McCollins) to match the gentle swaying of the boat and culminating in some (successful) Banksy hunting followed by a roast leg of lamb. Mmmm.

Much love was evident as usual. It is such a shame that more time can't be spent together. I've said it before and I'll say it again, the only bad thing about being a burner is the fucking geography that is involved in our networks.