Dave loves potatoes. They are perhaps his favourite food. Roast, mash, lyonnaise, chips, jacket. Doesn’t really matter. In his opinion a meal is not a meal unless it includes potatoes. My take. They are okay but I like a bit of rice or pasta or couscous for variety.

In the boatyard, potatoes are an easy option on the bbq for dinner. Bit of tinfoil, spud on, 35 to 45 minutes later, jacket good to go. I decided that I was spudded out tonight so opted for a cheese and onion omelette. However prior to my eggy dinner I set off on a short bike ride to the shop. I fancied a bit of air as I’d been driving a sewing machine all day. A blast of air and a bit of exercise would be well received.

I needed a purpose for my ride so decided to head to the shop for some cold beers. It’s Friday night. I hadn’t had a drink all week so a cold lager seemed appealing in the last dregs of dwindling sunshine.  I approached the checkout with a 4 pack of pissy Budweiser lagers and a bag of crisps. High quality carbohydrates for a Friday night.

”Can I see your photo ID?”. “I haven’t got any” I said. “I’m 53” I said laughing (well actually guffawing uncontrollably)  and ruffling my hair to show my greying temples”.  I then realised this was in fact a lie as I forgot I am now 54. “I can’t sell you anything without any photo ID. You could try the 7/11”.

I left shaking my head in a ball of laughter with my solitary bag of crisps. Refused alcohol at 54. I thought those days were long gone.

And she was right. The 7/11 didn’t care. They sold me lager with gay abandon.

Our day stared at 4.33am. My UK phone rang. Shit. It’s an emergency at home. I leapt (well shuffled quickly) out of bed but inevitably the phone had rung off by the time I got to it. It was a buddy of ours from the uk. Ah, I thought. It’s a trouser pocket phone call. Unknown, unintended, uninitiated. I sent a message saying I think you called me by accident. No, I tried to call, came back the message, but I’m sorted now. Good I retorted in good humour. It’s 4.33am in the morning here so I’m going back to sleep. Oops, 😀 was his response. He’s a sweetheart.

After that we had a slow boatyard day. But we do have a working fridge now so no more luke warm drinks and we pumped the paddle boards up for a choppy excursion across the bay here in Fishing Bay, Deltaville, Virginia.

Dave is being sociable this evening with the other boatyard dwellers here. I’ve bailed out. There’s some lovely folk. However often the chat turns to boats and boating life which after a short while, bores the pants off me. I know I’m part of this crowd but it’s not my whole life. I am interested in other things. I’m more comfortable in smaller groups where you can actually get to know people and the conversation moves around a lot more. Sounds a bit ironic I know. We’ve been boat based for over 3 years now. But just cos I live in a boat, doesn’t mean I want to chat about it all the time.

We imagine being out the water for about another two weeks. Then it’s up to Annapolis as there’s a big boat-show there. And we hope to meet up with some folk that we haven’t seen for a while. In the meantime, we will be watching the http://www.nch.noaa.gov website for any big time hurricane activity.

And as a footnote. Please don’t call me at 4.33am. It’s too stressful.

Time is almost up. Pack tomorrow, fly Monday, start varnishing on Tuesday.

It’s been great here in Blighty. Seen a shed load of people. Whizzed around the country a bit. Done a modicum of work. Been out playing some too. So all in all a full on successful time.

It’s reassuring to know Britain is still full of kindly folk and mad characters. They provide a welcome distraction from the political fug that currently permeates and consumes daily life.

I met a old boy at the local cricket game who informed me he’d sung Frank Sinatra’s My Way in pretty much every boozer in the East Midlands. His rendition, (there was no way he wasn’t sharing his self professed talent) was truely awful and was delivered in true pub singer style. I asked him why My Way, to be told it was the only tune he could remember the words to. Small mercies.

Don’t know when we’ll be back next. We’re on our way to New Zealand.