A lesson was learned last night.

I turned on our newly refurbished Eberspacher boiler with promises of a toasty warm shower, and who knows, perhaps even warm pyjamas fresh from the radiator and a spot of washing up... the possibilities were endless. After half an hour the heavens opened and I remembered that the bilge hatches were open. So I trotted out in the rain to close the hatches and save the engine from a drowning.

Now, the thing is, our Eberspacher has the added bonus of an exhaust pipe that resembles a flute. I'm sure if the correct combination of holes were covered in the correct sequence it could play the hornpipe. It also likes to spew a fair quantity of diesel exhaust fumes into the bilge area through these afore-mentioned holes. Of course with the hatches closed, those fumes had nowhere to go except into the stern cabin.

So there was I sat at the front of the boat merrily singing along to "I Know Him So Well" (playing both the Elaine Page and Barbara Dickson parts - quite a skill, that) whilst swigging ginger beer, with no idea that the back half of the boat was starting to smell like the skanky end of Aylesbury Bus Station. Only after some twenty minutes or so when I wandered through the boat did the smell hit me - and what a smell! In a very short space of time I started feeling sick, then dizzy, then somewhat concerned for my health.

Not wanting to cut the Eberspacher off halfway through it's cycle (as it's temeperamental to say the least) I flung open the stern cabin windows, closed the door that separates that cabin from the bedroom and fled to the safety of the front cabin, opened the front door to the fresh evening air and put on a light. What better an invitation for the first daddy-long-legs of the season to hurtle into the boat and dance the fandango around my bonce (obviously a Barbara Dickson fan).

I myself am not a fan of daddy-long-legs at the best of times - especially the first one of the season. So I fled to the middle cabin, grabbed a copy of Moominpappa's Memoirs in my left hand with which to send it to insect-heaven, and a can of Raid in my right-hand to send it to insect-hell (just in case it managed to avoid the book-wallopping) and I zipped my fleece right up to my nose to minimise the area of skin at risk of being landed on by the offending creature.

In a moment reminiscent of the final scene of Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid I flung myself into the front cabin, pages flapping and aerosol blazing, and the daddy-long-legs took a squirting right in the kidney. Success! It staggered, it fell. The Clanger was victorious.

But my glory lasted only a few seconds when I realised that the smell of Raid was rather strong and posionous and was forcing me to retreat to the middle cabin once more. It had also gone all over my glass of ginger beer which had now somewhat lost its appeal.

So there was I - trapped. I couldn't go backwards for fear of carbon monoxide posioning from the Eberspacher. Couldn't go forwards for fear of inhaling carcinogenic insecticides. Had no intention of opening any more doors or windows which might allow more daddy-long-legs in. So I spent an hour thus trapped in a small room that used to house a pootank till the Eberspacher timer switched itself off and I could once more brave the back end of the boat.

Kev, fortunatley has no sense of smell, so returned home from work for a match of pro-celebrity Battleships none-the-wiser.

And the lesson learned? Never sing the Barbara Dickson part.