Woe is me. I will not be the Cawsand ferrygirl.
I had such a vision in my head: me, tanned, wearing those dungaree shorts that I’m bidding for on ebay (size 12 this time – having a nice boyfriend seems to have led to dramatic arse expansion), welcoming janners on to the ferry and keeping them merrily entertained with my expansive local knowledge (and arse) while smilingly demanding their ice cream money, sunbathing a little on deck and then finally evicting them on to lovely Cawsand beach in time for pasty o’clock.
But alas, no. It seems I need to be able to lift the heavy heavy plank higher than I can get it at the moment. It tantalisingly nudges my chin but refuses to pass my face. My arms fail me. I am not to be that girl.
After my secret plank-hoisting attempts Rich got yabbering to a man at the boatyard and told him of my plight. Guess who he turned out to be. The skipper didn’t seem too upset as he broke the bad news to me, all “I told them a girl couldn’t do it” and amused smiles, I could have screamed. He wouldn’t even watch me try as arranged, just took Rich’s word for it that I couldn’t do it and let me know it was not to be. I would curse my boyfriend’s mouth, but it can’t be held responsible for my measly arms. I’m just not up to it. I’m going to go along and keep trying to shift the damn thing – perhaps my biceps will blossom in the coming month – but it looks most likely that I will have to find another less outdoorsy, less wader-wearing glamorous, less lovely lovely Cawsandy summer job. Woe indeed. Woe.