‘Oh wow!’ ‘Jammy git!’ ‘Lucky bas- so and so!’

Just a few of the oft heard phrases I receive when I tell people I live on a narrowboat. And to a certain degree I lap it up. Like the times when it’s blazing sunshine and clear cobalt skies and my wife and I are in some secluded spot somewhere along the canal with a bottle of malbec sat between us and a view to die for all around. Yes! Then I am a lucky bastard.

But, fast forward a few months into December and ask me then how many lucky stars I’m counting. Ask me then about frozen water tanks and equally frozen gas bottles. Ask me then about falling on my arse trying to get off the boat in the ice and snow. Ask me then about being covered in coal dust after trying to light a fire in minus temperatures at seven in the morning as my breath comes out in sheets and my fingers go on strike due to the cold (my feet are ok because I slept with my socks on). Ask me then about emptying a plastic chemical toilet on a frosty night in a disgusting Elsan building that reeks like charnel house with the heating on full blast and no ventilation when my land living friends are casually flushing their porcelain Thomas Crappers with carefree, Toilet Duck fragranced abandon. Still think I’m so lucky? Thought not.

And that’s the boating reality folks. It ain’t all about roses and castles or Rosie and Jim (how I despise the pair of them). Cruising in the Summer is fun but just remember that Summer don’t last that long. Winter, in the UK tends to last a whole lot longer. But it’s my choice right? I made the decision to live afloat so maybe I should just shut up and stop complaining. Actually no, I’m still going to complain (it’s part of being British after all). You see, I knew what I was getting into before I got into it and despite the things that all boaters grumble about – fire, toilets, gas, water etc etc – I still love it. I mean, living in a house comes with it’s own set of particular problems. For example: I have no lawn to mow nor loft to lag nor boiler to explode and send a biblical torrent of water into the cellar (this happened to me). My life is far more simplistic and in many ways easier (except for the Elsan).

What I am finding difficult at times is writing, especially during this Covid pandemic and lockdown. Space is an issue you see. My charming and beautiful wife, Ange, works for the local council and as such now works from home and has done since March last year. For a while I worked outside, on the mooring, as she has many phone calls to make and needs privacy. That was fine during the rather good Summer we had last year. Over Winter, it’s not been so ideal and we’ve had to come up with a few counter measures so that we can both work in the cramped conditions of the boat and be productive. Firstly, we bought a folding picnic table which is big enough to allow us both the space we need to work, eat and of an evening put feet up on. Secondly we have bought a pair of industrial strength ear defenders for me to wear when Ange is making those phone calls. They muffle beautifully. Thirdly we have a veritable tagliatelle of cables criss-crossing between us to provide enough power for laptops, phones, tablets, lamps, fans and whatnot. And so far, it works.

And you thought being an author was glamorous. Nah!