Living on a Boat, Part 2

So there, I am, standing in a marine broker's telling them I want to buy a houseboat.

"Certainly sir! How much do you want to spend?"

"I don't know how much these things cost. Try and rob me."

With the gaunlet down, they tried. First boat on the menu was some astonishing and expensive widebeam. I hadn't encountered a widebeam yet. For those of you who still haven't, think narrow boat, but twice as wide: more space, more potential for comfort and homeliness. OK, I thought, I like widebeams. But this first one was just too much: it  had plasma tellies, carpets all over the place, a marble-top kitchen with all sorts of hidey-holes, really maximising the use of space. The bathroom was decked out in Italian mosaic-tiles and the bedroom sported a leather bed. Seriously.

"It's really for thrusting, young executives on Canary Wharf" said Sales Lady, to which I replied that I was no longer young and my thrusting days were well and truly over. So we looked at another boat: still astonishing, but the problem they both had was that they were both a bit like floating hotel suites. In my limited showbiz capacity, I have stayed in hotels for periods of time and know enough to know that you go a bit mad after a while. And I was feeling mad enough, by this point.

So, we check out another widebeam.

I liked this one. It started up the fantasies in my head again; Rosie and Jim, David Essex, befriending ducks and plenty of sunshine. I'm a fairly tatty sort of guy and this was my kind of place: wooden throughout, open-plan, with a cottagey, rustic sort of feel. And, get this, it had furniture: two sofas, an Ottoman, a regular not-leather bed, shower, washing machine, cuddly toy etc etc.

"I like this one."

"Oh, good! Well, we're looking for a quick sale on it, so you'd be grabbing a bargain."

"Why?"

Turns out that the guy who'd fitted it out wanted to Live The Dream. He'd spent two years building it up from an empty steel hull, adding wood panelling, wiring things in and doing plumbingy stuff. He'd sold his house to finance it, got rid of all his worldly possessions to make room and finally moved in.

"And then he had a huge asthma attack. He went to the doctor who told him that he couldn't live on the river, because of the moisture in the air."

Blimey. However, I didn't have asthma and I didn't have a home - but I did have a chequebook!

"I'll take it!"

The one thing that stood in my way was money. At that point, I had next to nothing; all my cash was tied up in the ex-familial home. But, I had enough to pay the deposit and explained that it would be a bit of time before I'd actually be able to pay the thing off. It wan't a problem; they appeared just delighted to be moving the thing on.

Three months went by before I was able to get the cash together to make the final payment. The day I made the final transaction, I was working at a London film school, helping student directors learn about actor-types. In the lunchbreak, I phoned the broker's to see of the cheque had cleared. "It's gone through!" they cried. " You can take her to your moorings!"

My new what?

 For some reason, I hadn't thought about this bit. I don't know what I was thinking; probably just pitching up on some picturesque riverbank and deciding that was my new home/garden/spot. . But there were things to consider: my young son would be visiting me and I wanted to be near his home, in case I was ever needed.

"I'll call you back." I said, leaving them in no doubt they were dealing with an idiot.

I then spent two or three days trawling the 'net and making calls to find a mooring. Had a boat, but nowhere to put it. Magically, I found a place about a mile from my son's house. The only problem was that it was in the middle of the river: three large poles, romantically known as 'piles'. But, as far as I could see, I still had two arms and rowing didn't look that tricky, so I paid the deposit and booked my spot. I phoned the broker's.

"I've got my mooring!"  I declared.

"Great. You can come and get the boat."

Hmmm. Another piece of the jigsaw in my mind had gone AWOL.

"OK. What do you mean 'get the boat'?"

"Take her to your moorings."

"OK. How do I do that?"

Silence. Then: "You sail her. She's a boat."

For some reason, I hadn't spotted this part of the equation. I think I'd thought that they'd put it on the back of a lorry or something, drive it up the motorway and then just pop it in the river, like you do. But, no, I had to sail it. A considerable distance. And I'd never sailed a boat before.

I rang my mate, Jim....

To be continued etc etc.