Hoping Spring has sprung

There’s a lazy Sunday afternoon winter’s son over the Limehouse Basin today, and I’m six months into my adventure. I moved into my houseboat as part of my divorce proceedings on 1 August last year to begin an adventure for a couple of years. It may seem strange to some people that to steady my life I move onto a home can adjust in the wind and rain, but it has become a haven. I had two and a half months of beautiful weather, throwing on a pair of shorts every morning I wasn’t working, and life seemed like a holiday. I’ve learnt about inverters and Webasto’s, when to put my fuel order in and when to top up my water tank. Many people worried when I said I was going to buy a boat. They immediately thought of the winter, and with a sense of comedy timing that I’d like to think only I could manage, I bought my boat before one of the hardest coldest winters we’ve had. And I know that it might not yet be over. The Beast from the East came in March, and my mother was very fond of the mantra that the month of my birthday “comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” It’s not only the weather that’s made it a hard winter. It’s been a dark and cold winter emotionally. When you spend 25 years of your life in a couple, you find that you’re rather sheltered. My social life hasn’t exactly spilled into my door, and I’ve been lucky that those lovely people I’ve had the chance of working with who have reached out and provided social opportunities and fun. But these last mornings have brought the need for very little heating as the back deck under its awning has heated to be a place for work in coffee. Last night I smashed the glass on my stove, an action which a couple of months ago would have filled me with horror. Today it’s just been “one of those things that happens on a boat” and I’ve dealt with it. In fact, the chores one has to do; filling the water tank, tightening the ropes, emptying the toilet cassettes, swabbing down the decks and rogering the cabin boy have given my life purpose when otherwise it might have seemed to have had none. I feel a little more hardy than I did living in centrally heated comfort in suburbia. Instead of notching up my heating, I pull on another jumper. I’ve learnt how to time the heating to come on before I get up, and an investment in a Wi-Fi radiator means I rarely come back to a boat that isn’t warm. (I might live to regret saying that as I shiver through the BAFTAs this evening, but I doubt that will be the case.) It won’t be long before my home will be the envy of my friends, who will want to pop over for a drink and to sit in the sun on the roof during the summer months. Apart from a cocktail and canapes drinks do way back in September, I haven’t really hosted a dinner party. I had a practice run the other night with a fellow boat owner from the pontoon and thrilled myself by an ability to produce a very passable three-course dinner. We will test again on something next weekend. I went out for lunch on Tuesday, Valentine’s Day, with a good old friend. I had already reached the end of my patience. The words ‘Valentines” and ‘love’ heard every two seconds on the radio. Twice over lunch, my silver coil ring flew across the restaurant as an accompaniment to a particular anecdote. I retrieved it but later in the afternoon walking to a location recce, I looked down to find that my little finger was bare. I’ve had that ring for nearly 20 years. In fact, it was itself a replacement for one I lost on a sightseeing bus in Chicago in 2001. At first, I was a little annoyed with myself, but then I thought perhaps it was all part of casting off things. I had a little repeat cheque I wasn’t expecting this week. So yesterday afternoon I found myself in Tiffany’s on Bond Street, to see if I could find a suitably stylish replacement. Tiffany’s is a little like Argos. Everything seems to be kept in a back room. It’s brought out for you to peruse. I was being served by the most delightful assistant, and she went to collect a selection of signet rings. Meanwhile, I was looking at their website on my phone and I saw something that, I thought, was precisely what I was looking for. The gorgeous lady arrived back clutching a black ring tray. She pulled back the cloth that was covering the goods. Lo-and-behold, the first ring she pulled out was precisely the one I wanted. I sign? Maybe. Now I’m proudly wearing it on my finger. So if I can cope with replacing the stove door and losing a treasured ring, then who knows what else I can cope with. Although, if whoever handles the weather is reading this, I’d be truly grateful if they didn’t take it as an excuse to send us a freezing March. If it could come in like a lamb and leave politely, shutting the door on the way out, I’d be deeply grateful