Aha. So, there I was, living on a boat. In just two weeks, I'd got through a ridiculous voyage, survived a spider infestation, but still hadn't worked out how to turn on my lights and heating. I spoke to my brother, who's throwaway comment had inspired this madness:
"Hey, bud; how's it going?"
How d'you answer that? How do you admit that what seemed like the best, duck-filled idea was turning out to be a nightmare? Like this:
"It's like I've moved to Mars and I'm expected to go about my business as usual."
That pretty much summed it up. Every morning, I'd wake up at 6.30, have a cup of tea and then jump in a dinghy and row to land to go and look after my son. After a day's cooking, cleaning and playing, I'd head back to the boatyard, jump in a dinghy and row back. I was trying ot make it all seem perfectly normal in my head, but I knew it wasn't, not for me, a confirmed landlubber. But I got through May.
One weekend, very early on, I was sitting in my saloon (lounge, in real talk), contemplating again just how I was going to get out of this. And there's a knock at the door. A knock on the door of my boat, which is parked in the middle of the river. Who the hell is this? Postmen don't deliver to boats and I don't remember seeing a milk float chugging up and down the Thames. I opened the hatch and there's a guy standing in a dinghy, who introduces himself as Matt and asks if he can see my boat.
What?
What I didn't realise back then is that people who like boats like boats. What I perceived to be nosiness was a genuine interest in my tub. And, to be honest, I was glad of the company, so I invited him in and gave him a cup of tea and let him inspect the boat. Which passed muster. Over the next two days, there were more knocks at my door and more people, all very friendly, coming to see my boat. They all had boats moored along the boatyard and wanted to see what the new one was like. One of them mentioned that, in a few days, there would be the Annual Moorings Party on an island and was I going? I supposed I was.
So, a few days later, I went to this island to go and poke my face in and see who's who. And, sure as dammit, there's a party going on and people are introducing themselves and it's all very jolly. At one point, as I stood clutching my non-alcoholic beer, an older guy, about sixty, came and intriduced himself as Chris. Chris had the biggest boat on the moorings; a monster of a thing that overlooked everyone else.
"I've been watching you."
Great. I've got a stalker.
"Oh, yeah?" I replied, probably a little too quickly.
"Yeah. You don't know what the f**k you're doing, do you?" Although I don't think he was trying to be intimidating, he was doing a pretty good job.
"No, I don't." No point in lying.
"Well, if you need a hand with anything, let me know."
Bingo!
"Great! You couldn't come and show me how to turn my lights on, could you?"
Chris laughs, so I try again.
"No, really. I don't know how to turn my lights on."
After a little more persuading, I rowed Chris to my tub and he showed me how to turn my lights on. AND the central heating. AND how to turn the electrics on. Things are slowly looking up. But there was a price to pay: the moment I got Chris back to the party, the story was rattled around the island and so began my reputation as the Man Who Knows Nothing. Which I have proudly upheld for the last five years.
What I didn't know was that this was the beginning of my integration into the Boating Community. For anyone who hasn't experienced it, the Boating Community is exceptionally strong. Within six weeks I knew the names of pretty much everyone on the moorings and could stop and say hallo. If I'd moved into a flat, I still might not know my neighbours. Today, for instance, one of the guys Matt, actually) shouted across to see if I was alright, what with the cold weather and all. I asked someone once why the community was so strong and they told me that it's because, if you own a boat, everyone thinks you're a dick, so "we might as well all be dicks together." It's pretty self-effacing, but there's an element of truth to it and, regardless, I'm grateful.
The next week, there was a regatta upstream and a load of people were going and asked me if I was. No, I wasn't; there was no way I was sailing this damn thing for any longer than I had to, so I waved everyone off and tried to get back on with my Martian life. It was June.
Waking up to find that your house has risen by 11 feet is an unnerving experience. But, it was the flash-floods of 2007. Of course I'd heard the rain. When it rains on a boat, it sounds like you're being attacked by a nation armed with pea-shooters. But, for some reason, I hadn't considered that water falling out of the sky will increase the water on the ground. And how fast it flows. The gentle, pond-like river was now an angry torrent, surging around my home, bashing bits of tree and debris into it. This wasn't good.
What also wasn't good was that I had to row across it. In a plastic dinghy with no anchor. For the first day, I didn't have to be anywhere, so I stayed on board and thought it would all be OK by tomorrow. Tomorrow came and the river was still racing, so I took my life in my hands and climbed in my little dinghy - and pushed off.
Within seconds, I was racing downstream with no chance of going anywhere else. Fortunately, I had enough presence of mind to try and steer myself towards shore and managed to grab onto a moored boat. I then rang Chris, who came out in his dinghy, propelled by a beautiful, shiny...outboard motor.
Before I got home that evening, I promised myself I would have one.
How wrong can you be?
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Living on a Boat, Part 6
At least there were no spiders. At least I could try and get some sleep.
How wrong can you be?
Each night I'd settle down, still questioning my sanity, but ready for a restorative snooze. And each night, for the first two weeks, I'd be woken at midnight, 2 am, 4 am and 6 am by A Noise. Now, the times I've given for the Noise are approximate, but it happened between two and four times a night. But let's not get ahead of ourselves - there were other things that happened before bedtime.
Opposite my boat was - and still are - pleasure boats; the ones that take people out for boozy nights on the River. I'd hear the engines start up about 8 and about half an hour later, hear the sounds of Tina Turner's 'Simply the Best' or some other crowd-pleaser fading down the Thames, underscored by cheers, out-of-tune singing and whistles. This was a bit of comfort for me; my boat is moored in the middle of the River and you can feel a bit cut off from the rest of the world, if you're not careful. The sounds of people enjoying themselves reminded me that all was not lost and there are good times to be had.
The other thing that helped me through my darker hours was Russell Brand's Radio 2 show. Love him or loathe him, the man is an infernal optimist and it's quite infectious. My Friday night treat was to sit and listen to him with a big bar of chocolate and try and lose myself in his madness. It was quite a blow when he got taken off.
But there were things happening I didn't understand and, being one of nature's cowards, things I don't understand tend to scare me. The first was that the boat would suddenly lurch at about 11 pm, slamming into the piles with some force. I didn't mentally connect the dots joining this motion and the arrival of a pleasure ship about 15 minutes later. I didn't know about 'bow-waves' - why should I? So, until I worked it out, as far as I was concerned, the boat was sinking every night at 11 o'clock.
The other thing was the sound of breaking glass at midnight. Lots of it. I'd already heard whispers of 'River Pirates', so I'd eye-up my entrance-hatch, wondering just how I could make it more secure. More dots I didn't join and these turned out to be the empties from the pleasure boat being disposed of.
But, the Noise... It sounded to me like ropes being stretched to breaking point; that sort of 'D - d - d - d -' sound you get just before there's an almighty snap and your boat goes shooting off downstream. Given that my boat was secured by ropes with knots that I'd tied and therefore didn't trust, this meant that I'd shoot out of bed, grab a torch and stand on the rear deck, checking the lines. Twice, three times a night. And I won't mention the fact that I don't wear pyjamas in bed. Or anything else, for that matter.
Two weeks of this went by, with me getting more and more paranoid, probably due to exhaustion. One night, I think about 3 am, I was doing my usual naked check, when I happened to shine the light along the side of the boat. There, in a lovely little line, was a row of ducks. Nibbling the weed off my hull. Making a 'd-d-d-d-d-d-' noise. Not my ropes snapping. Not at all.
Still, it was another one to cross off the list and it was June now and Spring was on its way.
Anyone remember the flash-floods of 2007..?
I do.
To be continued...
How wrong can you be?
Each night I'd settle down, still questioning my sanity, but ready for a restorative snooze. And each night, for the first two weeks, I'd be woken at midnight, 2 am, 4 am and 6 am by A Noise. Now, the times I've given for the Noise are approximate, but it happened between two and four times a night. But let's not get ahead of ourselves - there were other things that happened before bedtime.
Opposite my boat was - and still are - pleasure boats; the ones that take people out for boozy nights on the River. I'd hear the engines start up about 8 and about half an hour later, hear the sounds of Tina Turner's 'Simply the Best' or some other crowd-pleaser fading down the Thames, underscored by cheers, out-of-tune singing and whistles. This was a bit of comfort for me; my boat is moored in the middle of the River and you can feel a bit cut off from the rest of the world, if you're not careful. The sounds of people enjoying themselves reminded me that all was not lost and there are good times to be had.
The other thing that helped me through my darker hours was Russell Brand's Radio 2 show. Love him or loathe him, the man is an infernal optimist and it's quite infectious. My Friday night treat was to sit and listen to him with a big bar of chocolate and try and lose myself in his madness. It was quite a blow when he got taken off.
But there were things happening I didn't understand and, being one of nature's cowards, things I don't understand tend to scare me. The first was that the boat would suddenly lurch at about 11 pm, slamming into the piles with some force. I didn't mentally connect the dots joining this motion and the arrival of a pleasure ship about 15 minutes later. I didn't know about 'bow-waves' - why should I? So, until I worked it out, as far as I was concerned, the boat was sinking every night at 11 o'clock.
The other thing was the sound of breaking glass at midnight. Lots of it. I'd already heard whispers of 'River Pirates', so I'd eye-up my entrance-hatch, wondering just how I could make it more secure. More dots I didn't join and these turned out to be the empties from the pleasure boat being disposed of.
But, the Noise... It sounded to me like ropes being stretched to breaking point; that sort of 'D - d - d - d -' sound you get just before there's an almighty snap and your boat goes shooting off downstream. Given that my boat was secured by ropes with knots that I'd tied and therefore didn't trust, this meant that I'd shoot out of bed, grab a torch and stand on the rear deck, checking the lines. Twice, three times a night. And I won't mention the fact that I don't wear pyjamas in bed. Or anything else, for that matter.
Two weeks of this went by, with me getting more and more paranoid, probably due to exhaustion. One night, I think about 3 am, I was doing my usual naked check, when I happened to shine the light along the side of the boat. There, in a lovely little line, was a row of ducks. Nibbling the weed off my hull. Making a 'd-d-d-d-d-d-' noise. Not my ropes snapping. Not at all.
Still, it was another one to cross off the list and it was June now and Spring was on its way.
Anyone remember the flash-floods of 2007..?
I do.
To be continued...
Sunday, 15 January 2012
Living on a Boat, Part 5
Given that I've been living on a boat for about five years now, I've learned to Dread and Fear the Winter Months. But, more importantly than that, I've learned to prepare forthem. But things was different way back when I was spending my first month on the water, Ho Yes! I suppose the one caveat I ought to add is that, if my actions seemed a little off-kilter, I was fresh from the wacky world of divorce - well, as near as you can get without being married - and having to get used to being without my son. But, back to the way it was...
I still had no lights or heating and, despite the fact that it was May, it was cold. So, each night would see me hunched over the laptop that I'd charged in the car, shrouded by towels and duvets and squinting through the candlelight, like something out of a Dickens novel. When I went to bed, my drfifting-off thoughts were "How am I going to get out of this one?" It was like I'd played a ridiculously expensive and character-crushing practical joke on myself.
My first Major Nightime Concern arrived on my first or second night and it sounded and felt like someone dropping grapes onto the bed and the floor. Unfortunately, I was operating by candles, so it was hard to identify the problem at first. But then, it became evident just what the reality of this grape-storm was:
Spiders.
I'll say it again:
Spiders.
I HATE spiders. Not dislike or am made uncomfortable by - HATE. I realise they are just insects with extra legs and no abdomen and they have as much right to be around etc, etc - but, really. These things are evil: they look evil, move evil and probably swear. And there were dozens of the swines dropping onto my bed. Cue night on sofa, mummified in sleeping bag.
The next day, I went into a boat shop, which I have since learned is a chandler's. Trying not to sound like the wimp I am, I marched up to the counter:
"I've got spiders on my boat."
"It's a boat."
"So?"
"Spider love boats."
This was news to me. Spider love boats? This didn't tally with my Rosie and Jim visions of things. But, alas, it would prove to be all too true. Spiders LOVE boats. And I HATE spiders: a Conflict of Interests. Another thing I've learned is that spiders can swim. As if they weren't bad enough, the little fiends use their front and rear legs like rudders to choose direction and the remaining four as oars, without breaking the surface tension of the water. What next, I ask you? Rocket packs? The problem was that, while my boat was sitting in a marina, waiting for me to buy it, it had been cleaned daily. Once I'd secured the deposit, it was one off the staff to-do list; it was left to gather dust and harbour stowaways.
Anyhow, I asked old Matey behind the counter if he could supply me with something to get rid of the infestation.
"Humane or chemicals?"
This was a bit of a wrestle for me; I like to think of myself as one of the good guys and I don't like killing bugs, even if I HATE them.
"Humane."
Matey then sells me an Electronic Spider Scarer. Apparently, you turn them on and they emit an ultra-high frequency that is the same for spiders as a workman using a pneumatic drill is for us when we're watching the telly. Brilliant! So, equipped with my Scarer and some AAA batteries, I went back to the boat to exact my terrible revenge.
Fast-forward another sleepless night of the sound of fat bodies dropping onto my bed and I'm back at the chandler's the next morning.
"This thing doesn't work!"
"Oh."
"Yes! I had it on all last night and they're still there!"
Matey now eyes me like people eye firearms.
"These take between six to eight weeks to have any effect..."
Two months? Two months of living out William Shatner's finest B-movie, Kingdom of the Spiders??? I don't think so.
"What chemicals have you got?"
Matey sells me some Spider Spray. The label tells me that it will kill on contact and set up a repellent barrier for up to 8 months. Kay.
However, clinging to my 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' policy, I felt so guilty that I went around the boat, armed with a dustpan and brush, a glass and a piece of card. Those found were swiftly and fearfully evicted and sent on their way, which is how I learned they can swim. I must have got rid of about 150 of the creatures. I'll put it in word, so there can be no doubt: one hundred and fifty. No exaggeration. Then, like the slightly-unhinged person I was/am/can be, I stood and announced:
"Right - you've got thirty minutes to leave. I'm coming back with chemicals. You have been warned." This monologue was based on something nother arachnophobe had told me about spiders leaving if you talk to them. Something to do with them being able to translate the vibrations in your voice. This theory is, I now realise, complete arse.
So, I shoved-off for thirty minutes like I said I would and came back, armed to the teeth, with aerosols of something that should probably be withdrawn by the EU. As per the instructions, I sprayed everywhere, focussing on the entry points, and left for two hours. When I came back, it was like a scene from a massacre - there must have been about 30 balled-up little bodies dangling from threads of just lying on the floor. Out they went.
Having not slept properly for two days, I was looking forward to a decent bit of kip that night. I crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that there were no more than two legs on this boat and that tonight I would sleep like a log. How wrong can you be? I'd reckoned without... The Duck Incident!
To be continued/drawn-out/harped-on-about....
I still had no lights or heating and, despite the fact that it was May, it was cold. So, each night would see me hunched over the laptop that I'd charged in the car, shrouded by towels and duvets and squinting through the candlelight, like something out of a Dickens novel. When I went to bed, my drfifting-off thoughts were "How am I going to get out of this one?" It was like I'd played a ridiculously expensive and character-crushing practical joke on myself.
My first Major Nightime Concern arrived on my first or second night and it sounded and felt like someone dropping grapes onto the bed and the floor. Unfortunately, I was operating by candles, so it was hard to identify the problem at first. But then, it became evident just what the reality of this grape-storm was:
Spiders.
I'll say it again:
Spiders.
I HATE spiders. Not dislike or am made uncomfortable by - HATE. I realise they are just insects with extra legs and no abdomen and they have as much right to be around etc, etc - but, really. These things are evil: they look evil, move evil and probably swear. And there were dozens of the swines dropping onto my bed. Cue night on sofa, mummified in sleeping bag.
The next day, I went into a boat shop, which I have since learned is a chandler's. Trying not to sound like the wimp I am, I marched up to the counter:
"I've got spiders on my boat."
"It's a boat."
"So?"
"Spider love boats."
This was news to me. Spider love boats? This didn't tally with my Rosie and Jim visions of things. But, alas, it would prove to be all too true. Spiders LOVE boats. And I HATE spiders: a Conflict of Interests. Another thing I've learned is that spiders can swim. As if they weren't bad enough, the little fiends use their front and rear legs like rudders to choose direction and the remaining four as oars, without breaking the surface tension of the water. What next, I ask you? Rocket packs? The problem was that, while my boat was sitting in a marina, waiting for me to buy it, it had been cleaned daily. Once I'd secured the deposit, it was one off the staff to-do list; it was left to gather dust and harbour stowaways.
Anyhow, I asked old Matey behind the counter if he could supply me with something to get rid of the infestation.
"Humane or chemicals?"
This was a bit of a wrestle for me; I like to think of myself as one of the good guys and I don't like killing bugs, even if I HATE them.
"Humane."
Matey then sells me an Electronic Spider Scarer. Apparently, you turn them on and they emit an ultra-high frequency that is the same for spiders as a workman using a pneumatic drill is for us when we're watching the telly. Brilliant! So, equipped with my Scarer and some AAA batteries, I went back to the boat to exact my terrible revenge.
Fast-forward another sleepless night of the sound of fat bodies dropping onto my bed and I'm back at the chandler's the next morning.
"This thing doesn't work!"
"Oh."
"Yes! I had it on all last night and they're still there!"
Matey now eyes me like people eye firearms.
"These take between six to eight weeks to have any effect..."
Two months? Two months of living out William Shatner's finest B-movie, Kingdom of the Spiders??? I don't think so.
"What chemicals have you got?"
Matey sells me some Spider Spray. The label tells me that it will kill on contact and set up a repellent barrier for up to 8 months. Kay.
However, clinging to my 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' policy, I felt so guilty that I went around the boat, armed with a dustpan and brush, a glass and a piece of card. Those found were swiftly and fearfully evicted and sent on their way, which is how I learned they can swim. I must have got rid of about 150 of the creatures. I'll put it in word, so there can be no doubt: one hundred and fifty. No exaggeration. Then, like the slightly-unhinged person I was/am/can be, I stood and announced:
"Right - you've got thirty minutes to leave. I'm coming back with chemicals. You have been warned." This monologue was based on something nother arachnophobe had told me about spiders leaving if you talk to them. Something to do with them being able to translate the vibrations in your voice. This theory is, I now realise, complete arse.
So, I shoved-off for thirty minutes like I said I would and came back, armed to the teeth, with aerosols of something that should probably be withdrawn by the EU. As per the instructions, I sprayed everywhere, focussing on the entry points, and left for two hours. When I came back, it was like a scene from a massacre - there must have been about 30 balled-up little bodies dangling from threads of just lying on the floor. Out they went.
Having not slept properly for two days, I was looking forward to a decent bit of kip that night. I crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that there were no more than two legs on this boat and that tonight I would sleep like a log. How wrong can you be? I'd reckoned without... The Duck Incident!
To be continued/drawn-out/harped-on-about....
Monday, 19 December 2011
Living on a Boat, Part 4
...so, we had no anchor.
Luckily - and it was all luck - there was no flow on the River so, even had the engine packed in, we'd have found some way of parking up. Unlike the time when my engine packed in a couple of years later - but that story's yet to make it to these pages as it hadn't happened yet.
We get to 5.30 and suddenly, there are no lock-keepers, which means you've got to do it manually. Open the doors. Fine if they've left the power on; you just punch a couple of buttons and 'open sesame', you're free to go through. But, as it turns out, most locks don't keep their power on afater 5.30, which means you've got to open those vast steel doors by hand. With a winch. Which takes a long time.
I think it was on our sixth lock wnen the cub-scouts appeared. We'd parked up, when a load of woggles appeared, led by Arkala/Brown Owl/Someone Who Should Know Better. Arkala's delighted, because his troupe have never seen a houseboat before and could they have a look inside. It's at this point that Jim plays a blinder and says that, yes, they can inspect the boat, if they operate the lock for us. And so, after a quick tour of a 57ft by 11ft steel box, Jim and I got to cruise lazily through while half a dozen ten year-olds worked up a sweath on the winches.
Much, much later, it was about 10.30 at night, darkness was falling fast and we didn't know about the spotlight on the front of the boat; we were flying blind and, to all intents and purposes, invisible to other craft. We were watching the map and had just made it under a bridge, when I realised that we'd overshot our mark. To be fair, I'd only seen the moorings from land and it all looks a bit different from the water. In the dark. Without an anchor. So, we span the boat and chugged back to where I thought it might have been. And Lo! 'twas the moorings!
Trouble was, my moorings are in the middle of the River; two big stakes, romantically known as 'piles'. So here's the problem: we can't just park on the piles, because Jim can't then get to land to go home. But I can't handle the thing on my own. Luckily, there were some dinghies floating around and (I still don't know how we did it without decimating at least three fibre-glass boats) we got to the piles, towing a dinghy. By now, it was nearly midnight.
But we were full of rejoicing - we'd sailed/boated/careered for eight and a half hours and got to where we needed to be! We were heroes! But Jim had to go home.
I rowed him over to his car and, it was only as his tail-lights rounded a corner that I realised that real journey was about to begin. I was living on my own. On a boat. In the middle of the River. What the hell was I thinking???
It had all seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now the reality-side was starting to kick in. Starting with the lights. I didn't have any. Well, not entirely true: I did have lights, but no amount of flicking the wall-switches would turn them on. Luckily, I'd spotted some candles in a drawer and lit them. OK. First problem solved. Problem The Second: it was cold. It was late May, but still very wintry. I dod have central-heating, but no idea how to turn it on. So, I sat on my sofa and covered myself in a duvet and some towels.
The one piece of forethought I had had, was to get out a DVD to take my mind off the fact that I was now no longer a part of my family, that I couldn't see my son whenever I wanted and that I was living in a boat. Luckily, I'd charged my laptop, because the TV and the mains plugs didn't seem to work, either. So, I sat down to watch the film that I'd chosen very deliberately to keep my spirits up. A Disney. You can't go wrong with a Disney, right?
Wrong.
'Night at the Museum' for those who haven't seen it, is about a father who has been booted out of the family home and is a failure in his young son's eyes. No amount of animated dinosaurs, cowboys and Indians or Hawaiian Idols could take away the fact that this was just how I felt. Luckily the batteries on my laptop ran out before I got to the end; I was in a bad enough state already; I didn't need some schmaltzy ending to cap it all off.
Red eyed, tired and more than a little frightened, I settled down for my first night aboard my floating home. It was to be the first in a series of very sleepless, traumatic nocturnal adventures.
To be continued...
Luckily - and it was all luck - there was no flow on the River so, even had the engine packed in, we'd have found some way of parking up. Unlike the time when my engine packed in a couple of years later - but that story's yet to make it to these pages as it hadn't happened yet.
We get to 5.30 and suddenly, there are no lock-keepers, which means you've got to do it manually. Open the doors. Fine if they've left the power on; you just punch a couple of buttons and 'open sesame', you're free to go through. But, as it turns out, most locks don't keep their power on afater 5.30, which means you've got to open those vast steel doors by hand. With a winch. Which takes a long time.
I think it was on our sixth lock wnen the cub-scouts appeared. We'd parked up, when a load of woggles appeared, led by Arkala/Brown Owl/Someone Who Should Know Better. Arkala's delighted, because his troupe have never seen a houseboat before and could they have a look inside. It's at this point that Jim plays a blinder and says that, yes, they can inspect the boat, if they operate the lock for us. And so, after a quick tour of a 57ft by 11ft steel box, Jim and I got to cruise lazily through while half a dozen ten year-olds worked up a sweath on the winches.
Much, much later, it was about 10.30 at night, darkness was falling fast and we didn't know about the spotlight on the front of the boat; we were flying blind and, to all intents and purposes, invisible to other craft. We were watching the map and had just made it under a bridge, when I realised that we'd overshot our mark. To be fair, I'd only seen the moorings from land and it all looks a bit different from the water. In the dark. Without an anchor. So, we span the boat and chugged back to where I thought it might have been. And Lo! 'twas the moorings!
Trouble was, my moorings are in the middle of the River; two big stakes, romantically known as 'piles'. So here's the problem: we can't just park on the piles, because Jim can't then get to land to go home. But I can't handle the thing on my own. Luckily, there were some dinghies floating around and (I still don't know how we did it without decimating at least three fibre-glass boats) we got to the piles, towing a dinghy. By now, it was nearly midnight.
But we were full of rejoicing - we'd sailed/boated/careered for eight and a half hours and got to where we needed to be! We were heroes! But Jim had to go home.
I rowed him over to his car and, it was only as his tail-lights rounded a corner that I realised that real journey was about to begin. I was living on my own. On a boat. In the middle of the River. What the hell was I thinking???
It had all seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now the reality-side was starting to kick in. Starting with the lights. I didn't have any. Well, not entirely true: I did have lights, but no amount of flicking the wall-switches would turn them on. Luckily, I'd spotted some candles in a drawer and lit them. OK. First problem solved. Problem The Second: it was cold. It was late May, but still very wintry. I dod have central-heating, but no idea how to turn it on. So, I sat on my sofa and covered myself in a duvet and some towels.
The one piece of forethought I had had, was to get out a DVD to take my mind off the fact that I was now no longer a part of my family, that I couldn't see my son whenever I wanted and that I was living in a boat. Luckily, I'd charged my laptop, because the TV and the mains plugs didn't seem to work, either. So, I sat down to watch the film that I'd chosen very deliberately to keep my spirits up. A Disney. You can't go wrong with a Disney, right?
Wrong.
'Night at the Museum' for those who haven't seen it, is about a father who has been booted out of the family home and is a failure in his young son's eyes. No amount of animated dinosaurs, cowboys and Indians or Hawaiian Idols could take away the fact that this was just how I felt. Luckily the batteries on my laptop ran out before I got to the end; I was in a bad enough state already; I didn't need some schmaltzy ending to cap it all off.
Red eyed, tired and more than a little frightened, I settled down for my first night aboard my floating home. It was to be the first in a series of very sleepless, traumatic nocturnal adventures.
To be continued...
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Life on a Boat, Part 3
As a vague foreword, I must point out that, while this may just read as a lightly amusing anecdote of sorts, everything on these posts actually happened and it still makes me sweat if I think about it too long...
So, I've got me moorings sorted and the boat's ready for me to pick up. So, I ring my mate, Jim.
"Jim - have you ever sailed a narrow boat?"
"Yeah..."
"Would you help me move mine to my moorings? It's a widebeam; like a narrow boat, but wider."
"Yeah..."
Brilliant. It's all go. Jim drives to me, leaves his car at the moorings and we take a taxi to where the boat is - about 20 minutes, by road. So far, so good. So, I lead Jim to my new floating home and he just sort of looks at it, which worries me a bit.
"You alright, Jim?"
"Yeah...It's just a bit bigger than the thing I sailed..."
"But it should be OK, right?"
"It might be an idea to ask someone..."
So, we go hunting around this marina, looking for someone to ask. It's lunchtime at this point and the only person we can find is a grizzled looking man in a straw hat: Ray. We ask Ray if he'll show is how to steer the thing, turn it on and point it in the right direction. Ray looks at us and then says he'll give us 15 minutes because his dinner's on.
It's better than nothing.
Ray gives us the precious 15 minutes. During that time, he shows us how to go forward, back. left (port) and right (starboard). he also tells us that we should drive on the right hand side of the river and then he has to go and have his dinner. As we pull away, I ask him which way my moorings are.
"Upstream!"
"Which way's that?"
Ray points upstream.
"And how long til we get there?" I shout as he gets smaller.
"About 8 hours!"
There is a moment of silence as me and Jim process this. 8 hours? But it only took 20 minutes by car! As we were to find, the Thames isn't a straight road and nor is the speed limit 70mph. The river twists and turns and meanders and the speed limit is 4mph. And there are locks.
I think it was about an hour in when we saw our first lock. Luckily, Jim knew what it was.
"OK, what do we do?" I asked, a bit panicky.
Jim may have known what it was, but he didn't know how to get through. We decided that the best course of action was to park up before the doors and 'fess up to the lock-keeper that we didn't have a clue what we were doing. This may have been the only good idea we had on the whole journey. In fact, it was so good that we did it at every lock we came to. The lock-keepers respected our honesty and saw us through, keeping us away from other boats where possible and helping out with the ropes. That is, until 5.30, when they all went home. But that hadn't happened yet.
About three hours in,we were getting relatively happy; we'd swap turns at the helm, make tea and knock up sandwiches as we went. It was sunny, people waved at us and it was suddenly quite a cheery way to spend an afternoon.
"You know I said I'd had narrow-boat experience..?" Jim said, while at the tiller.
"Yeah..." Something about the way he said it set the old alarm bells off.
"Well...I have..."
"Great - so what's the problem? Why are you telling me this?"
"Because it was when I was ten. I was at the tiller for a bout 35 minutes and then had my first epileptic fit."
I know I swore at this point. Here we were, miles from anywhere, on a boat and my First Officer had just revealed a disturbing link between the tiller and his neural pathways. In hindsight, I should've been sympathetic or something, but I wasn't. In honesty, I was starting to worry if we were going to get to where we were going.
Danger signs on the river are a funny thing if you've never seen them before. We drove through a set, looking around us for any hazards/shipwrecks/pirates, but couldn't see anything. Up ahead, there was a bridge with a lock and people waving at us. Something that we'd noticed is that a lot waving went on on the river: people passing in other boats wave, people on the bank wave - everybody waves. So, we just waved back at the people on the bridge and thought nothing of it.
Until they started shouting. And pointing.
We looked to where they were pointing.
"What's that?" said Jim.
I ran up to the front of the boat to have a look. It appeared to be a waterfall. A great big, drag-you-to-your-doom-style waterfall. I ran back.
"Jim! We've got to turn this thing around! It's waterfall."
It wasn't; it was the weir. But we were caught in the weir-stream and the tiller wouldn't budge. It took the both of us hanging onto it and the engine at full tilt to turn us around and inch away from the foamy steps of oblivion. To add to things, there were a load of other boats approaching the lock and, once we'd broken free of the stream, we went flying at them. Luckily, the experienced ones had spotted the problem and gave us plenty of room and we somehow veered around the two hire-boats in our way.
It was only as we were coming out of that lock, that another boater shouted after us: "Hey! Where's your anchor?"
Anchor?
To be continued....
So, I've got me moorings sorted and the boat's ready for me to pick up. So, I ring my mate, Jim.
"Jim - have you ever sailed a narrow boat?"
"Yeah..."
"Would you help me move mine to my moorings? It's a widebeam; like a narrow boat, but wider."
"Yeah..."
Brilliant. It's all go. Jim drives to me, leaves his car at the moorings and we take a taxi to where the boat is - about 20 minutes, by road. So far, so good. So, I lead Jim to my new floating home and he just sort of looks at it, which worries me a bit.
"You alright, Jim?"
"Yeah...It's just a bit bigger than the thing I sailed..."
"But it should be OK, right?"
"It might be an idea to ask someone..."
So, we go hunting around this marina, looking for someone to ask. It's lunchtime at this point and the only person we can find is a grizzled looking man in a straw hat: Ray. We ask Ray if he'll show is how to steer the thing, turn it on and point it in the right direction. Ray looks at us and then says he'll give us 15 minutes because his dinner's on.
It's better than nothing.
Ray gives us the precious 15 minutes. During that time, he shows us how to go forward, back. left (port) and right (starboard). he also tells us that we should drive on the right hand side of the river and then he has to go and have his dinner. As we pull away, I ask him which way my moorings are.
"Upstream!"
"Which way's that?"
Ray points upstream.
"And how long til we get there?" I shout as he gets smaller.
"About 8 hours!"
There is a moment of silence as me and Jim process this. 8 hours? But it only took 20 minutes by car! As we were to find, the Thames isn't a straight road and nor is the speed limit 70mph. The river twists and turns and meanders and the speed limit is 4mph. And there are locks.
I think it was about an hour in when we saw our first lock. Luckily, Jim knew what it was.
"OK, what do we do?" I asked, a bit panicky.
Jim may have known what it was, but he didn't know how to get through. We decided that the best course of action was to park up before the doors and 'fess up to the lock-keeper that we didn't have a clue what we were doing. This may have been the only good idea we had on the whole journey. In fact, it was so good that we did it at every lock we came to. The lock-keepers respected our honesty and saw us through, keeping us away from other boats where possible and helping out with the ropes. That is, until 5.30, when they all went home. But that hadn't happened yet.
About three hours in,we were getting relatively happy; we'd swap turns at the helm, make tea and knock up sandwiches as we went. It was sunny, people waved at us and it was suddenly quite a cheery way to spend an afternoon.
"You know I said I'd had narrow-boat experience..?" Jim said, while at the tiller.
"Yeah..." Something about the way he said it set the old alarm bells off.
"Well...I have..."
"Great - so what's the problem? Why are you telling me this?"
"Because it was when I was ten. I was at the tiller for a bout 35 minutes and then had my first epileptic fit."
I know I swore at this point. Here we were, miles from anywhere, on a boat and my First Officer had just revealed a disturbing link between the tiller and his neural pathways. In hindsight, I should've been sympathetic or something, but I wasn't. In honesty, I was starting to worry if we were going to get to where we were going.
Danger signs on the river are a funny thing if you've never seen them before. We drove through a set, looking around us for any hazards/shipwrecks/pirates, but couldn't see anything. Up ahead, there was a bridge with a lock and people waving at us. Something that we'd noticed is that a lot waving went on on the river: people passing in other boats wave, people on the bank wave - everybody waves. So, we just waved back at the people on the bridge and thought nothing of it.
Until they started shouting. And pointing.
We looked to where they were pointing.
"What's that?" said Jim.
I ran up to the front of the boat to have a look. It appeared to be a waterfall. A great big, drag-you-to-your-doom-style waterfall. I ran back.
"Jim! We've got to turn this thing around! It's waterfall."
It wasn't; it was the weir. But we were caught in the weir-stream and the tiller wouldn't budge. It took the both of us hanging onto it and the engine at full tilt to turn us around and inch away from the foamy steps of oblivion. To add to things, there were a load of other boats approaching the lock and, once we'd broken free of the stream, we went flying at them. Luckily, the experienced ones had spotted the problem and gave us plenty of room and we somehow veered around the two hire-boats in our way.
It was only as we were coming out of that lock, that another boater shouted after us: "Hey! Where's your anchor?"
Anchor?
To be continued....
Thursday, 1 December 2011
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.
"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.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Living on a Boat Part 1
It's around this time of year that I traditionally question my sanity. I've done this every year for the last four years because, for the last four years, I've been living on a boat.
It was actually my brother who suggested it. I'd split up from my son's mother and found myself with very little cash and no home. My sister put me up for a few weeks and my brother rang me to see how I was doing. During the course of the conversation, he quipped: "You should buy a houseboat, mate!" And, in hindsight, I can see he was joking; I'm the least technical, practical and self-sufficient person I know.
"Hooray!" I thought, as pictures of Rosie and Jim flooded through my mind. "The answer to all my problems!"
So, for the next few days, I trawled the Internet, looking for houseboats for sale. The problem with checking out Internet ads is that they only show lovely pictures of your chosen item and, in this case, in sunny weather. The fantasy was underway: I could see myself living like third-rate David Essex, befriending ducks, cuddling swans and generally having a high old time. It was going to be tranquil and relaxing; the perfect picture of peace.
Without further ado, I booked in some appointments and, full of nautical optimisim, went to go and see some boats.
The only prior experience I'd had with boats was a swan-shaped pedalo on Exmouth Boating Pond, when I was about five. And although the water was only a couple of feet deep, it terrified me. Amazingly, my brain decided to put a gagging order on this particular memory during the whole process: I was going to become a Gentleman of the River!
The first boat I saw was an absolute heap. Even with my zero experience, I could see that it was in bad nick and overpriced. No disrespect to anyone with a narrow boat, but it would have been like living in a train carriage. And it rocked when you walked and that unsettled me. But, brimming with naivety, I decided to continue with my quest.
Over the next two days, I think I saw about 16 - 20 boats, all in varying states of disrepair. Some of them were vaguely habitable but, being brutally honest, a lot of the owners put me off. It wasn't that they were nasty people, most of them were very nice and helpful. The thing was that they all seemed to be a bit mad and all had some story to tell, generally about how the hell they ended up living on a boat. And I didn't want to hear that, so I sort of tuned it out. Probably because I was starting to feel a bit mad, but didn't want to admit it. During that 48 hours, I met recovering alcoholics, a newly-emerged transsexual, divorcees and a guy with possibly the worst dental hygene I've ever seen outside of toothpaste adverts. Don't get me wrong; it was probably my frail mental state at the time that exaggerated these people into lurid cartoon characters, but I was still determined to find my new floating home.
It was during the failing daylight one Sunday in March that I shuffled despondently into a riverside broker's yard and announced my intent to by a houseboat. If only I'd known at the time what those knowing nods actually meant.
To be continued...
It was actually my brother who suggested it. I'd split up from my son's mother and found myself with very little cash and no home. My sister put me up for a few weeks and my brother rang me to see how I was doing. During the course of the conversation, he quipped: "You should buy a houseboat, mate!" And, in hindsight, I can see he was joking; I'm the least technical, practical and self-sufficient person I know.
"Hooray!" I thought, as pictures of Rosie and Jim flooded through my mind. "The answer to all my problems!"
So, for the next few days, I trawled the Internet, looking for houseboats for sale. The problem with checking out Internet ads is that they only show lovely pictures of your chosen item and, in this case, in sunny weather. The fantasy was underway: I could see myself living like third-rate David Essex, befriending ducks, cuddling swans and generally having a high old time. It was going to be tranquil and relaxing; the perfect picture of peace.
Without further ado, I booked in some appointments and, full of nautical optimisim, went to go and see some boats.
The only prior experience I'd had with boats was a swan-shaped pedalo on Exmouth Boating Pond, when I was about five. And although the water was only a couple of feet deep, it terrified me. Amazingly, my brain decided to put a gagging order on this particular memory during the whole process: I was going to become a Gentleman of the River!
The first boat I saw was an absolute heap. Even with my zero experience, I could see that it was in bad nick and overpriced. No disrespect to anyone with a narrow boat, but it would have been like living in a train carriage. And it rocked when you walked and that unsettled me. But, brimming with naivety, I decided to continue with my quest.
Over the next two days, I think I saw about 16 - 20 boats, all in varying states of disrepair. Some of them were vaguely habitable but, being brutally honest, a lot of the owners put me off. It wasn't that they were nasty people, most of them were very nice and helpful. The thing was that they all seemed to be a bit mad and all had some story to tell, generally about how the hell they ended up living on a boat. And I didn't want to hear that, so I sort of tuned it out. Probably because I was starting to feel a bit mad, but didn't want to admit it. During that 48 hours, I met recovering alcoholics, a newly-emerged transsexual, divorcees and a guy with possibly the worst dental hygene I've ever seen outside of toothpaste adverts. Don't get me wrong; it was probably my frail mental state at the time that exaggerated these people into lurid cartoon characters, but I was still determined to find my new floating home.
It was during the failing daylight one Sunday in March that I shuffled despondently into a riverside broker's yard and announced my intent to by a houseboat. If only I'd known at the time what those knowing nods actually meant.
To be continued...
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