"Now everyone's going crazy." My husband comes up to the "old lady" and drops onto a cushion. "You can't imagine." - "Imagine what?" I look up from my crossword puzzle book and am ready to interrupt for a moment. "Claudi's talking about a portafilter coffee machine. Everyone has one at home now, she says." A portafilter machine ... No more bitter coffee ... Oh, oh, I won't say anything. Nobody needs that.
No, seriously: that's the beauty of the boat, that everything is a little more reduced, apart from the seven toolboxes and the two sanders. Where does this greed of people come from? I lean back and cross my arms. It's a good thing we're not like that. To be honest: I'm not like that. My husband has never left a DIY store without having something for the "old lady" in his basket. Even if it's just bubble wrap. He can even find something for the boat in a toy shop, like the pool noodles recently. "You can cut up pool noodles and they're perfect for padding the forecastle so there are no scratches." You can live with that, even if the sound of the pool noodles rubbing almost drives you mad. But do we still have to start saying that everything has to be like at home? I should have a word with Claudi.
Now you want to have it nice after all
"I can understand that," she explains, "We're all at an age now where we no longer want to compromise. We used to have a discarded compost bin as a toilet and washed in mouldy harbour showers with sticky curtains. But now we want to have it nice. We no longer forbid ourselves anything. And you shouldn't either. Think about your age!"
I'm still resisting, because I don't want to copy everything. That's why I say: "We don't need a portafilter machine. Full stop." I look at my husband challengingly. Now he has to praise me. Me, who once asked for a salad spinner for my birthday and didn't get it. The weight, the weight. I'm really proud of myself.
"Maybe," says my husband now. "But it would be practical. I'll be honest: hand-brewed coffee tastes bitter after the second cup." Really? "At the end of the day, you want to have the same luxury on board as you do at home," continues my husband. "You don't get any younger. And at home, we no longer brew our coffee with a filter. We have a fully automatic machine."
"If a fully automatic machine is going to be living on this ship in the near future, I insist on an apple slicer," I say. I have one at home. "And finally porcelain, no more of those weird methadone plates." - "You mean melamine." - "Fine by me. Let's go into town."
If we're already that old, we at least want to have fun with it
I don't know what's got into us, but we're really getting into it. After all, we're not getting any younger. "If we're already that old," says my husband as we look for a parking space, "at least we want to have fun. Otherwise, you might as well leave it alone. Who knows how much longer this will last!" In my horrified mind's eye, I can already see us hurrying along the footbridge with walking frames. "With us?" - "No, I'm talking about the 'old lady'. She's not getting any younger." - "I see."
"Look, the soundbar. Just like in the living room." - "Oh look, an extendable table. Just like in our kitchen." - "Oh, a freezer, just like at home..." "Just like at home" becomes a catchphrase. We even buy a banana storage bowl in the shape of a banana because we have one at home.
"You're crazy," says Hanno, frowning. "Tell me, are you OK, is everything OK?" he asks my husband, who is making a list. "Everything's fine," he says. "You want to have the same luxury on board as you do at home. You don't get any younger with age." - "I see," says Hanno. "Will there be a sofa area on board? And a bathtub?"
My husband winces briefly, and I do too. That would be something! We could sit next to each other and both stretch our legs. Or imagine lying in a fragrant bubble bath and looking out of the window at the sea. Wonderful.
Melina and Frank come round to "check on you, the others are saying such funny things". I'm euphoric. "Yes, there's no more time to lose," I explain to the two of them. "We'll be eighty or ninety in no time, and then what?"
"Then you'll be sitting in a retirement home that you've furnished all by yourself because everything is duplicated," says Melina. "Besides, it will take time." - "It'll be quicker than you think," I say confidently. "It'll happen in no time at all. We're not young any more." - "You're exaggerating."
"No. I already know what I'm going to buy next," I explain to her." - "Namely?" - "A dehydrator. We have one at home. You can dehydrate with it." - "Really?" - "Yes, it's healthy. And we're not getting any younger. You have a Thermomix on board and you have one at home too."
Now I've got it. "That's something completely different," says Melina in awe. "A Thermi is a way of life. You live with the Thermi." As I nod automatically, I remember that we have a washing machine at home. And a carport. And a lawnmower.
How could we have disregarded our age so much?
My husband comes on board that day with a tree detaster. "We're not getting any younger. We'll need one in no time." - "Age hasn't usually been a problem for you," Michi says in surprise. "You say that," my husband explains, "but before you know it, you're eighty, then ninety, then ... Well. Who knows."
We order carpeting for the lounge and flirt with an Italian slicer the size of a third-grader. We don't have this thing at home, but never mind.
How could we have disregarded our age like that? I'm really angry with myself. We could have had all this much earlier. We can't wait any longer and order a tumble dryer. I want to give our clothes pegs to a young man on a 20-foot boat, but he says he doesn't have a railing and you don't need one. I don't understand that. You do need clothes pegs.
And then, one evening, we're sitting on our "old one", Michi is there too. And Heiner and Sunny. And Claudi. They all look at us. "We're worried," says Claudi, "you've changed somehow." - "Because we can't waste any more time," says my husband with a vehemence of enthusiasm. "We'll be seventy in no time, it won't be long now." - "You'll be sixty. You're ten years ahead of your time." I'm almost relieved. We've just been given ten years.
A ship moors next to us and the people greet us politely, later they sit down to eat. The woman comes up with a strange porcelain bowl. The bowl has holes in it.
"Can I ask what that is?" - "Sure." She smiles. "An asparagus lounger. The asparagus drips off it. I don't want to do without anything, I want it to be just as comfortable as at home. After all, you don't get any younger with age. After all, my husband and I will soon be thirty."
What skewers! I'm sure they also have a zester and a mincer on board. And an eggshell breaker. Luckily we're not like that.
