The Mast Lift

There I was, wanting an ice-cream but we ended up queuing at this silly little kiosk when there was a large parlour just across the way. And that irked me. And then the girl serving used the scoop so inexpertly that the vanilla got all streaked with strawberry. To make matters worse, after I had clearly asked for a cone, I was given a tub with the tiniest scoop of vanilla. "You should have said you wanted a cone," one of the assistants snapped at me. I picked up the tub and emptied it on the counter, and snapped back - "you know why this is so small? It's because she got the vanilla covered in so much strawberry!" At that the three assistants walked out in unison. I left and apologised to my companion for my irritation. "It'll be the thought of getting the mast stepped," I said to her.
And much later, as I walked along the pontoon with Andy, I remarked how it's always a great relief to get the mast up, and how I'd actually had a dream in which my foreboding of the mast lift had entered into my sleeping consciousness, while I was dreaming about getting served an ice-cream, in fact.
I was talking to your son, said Andy, and he said that his Dad was really laid back but the only time he'd ever seen him stressed was at the mast lift.
It's true. It's a stressful thing. But now I'm so happy!