Faring well in February

February has been a month of small victories. The fire has stayed in overnight. The canal hasn’t frozen. We have, against all odds, acquired houseplants. Winter on Scout, our widebeam boat, is not a matter of making do. It is, in fact, a very good life—one of warmth, ritual, and a steady supply of tea. We are not hardy survivalists, braving the elements with nothing but grit and a thermal vest. The fire, tended with the kind of care usually reserved for pedigree dogs, keeps the cabin warm, and the mornings—far from being the teeth-chattering ordeal some imagine—are quite pleasant. Brayden, braver of the two of us, is first up, stirring the embers and setting the kettle on, while I remain in bed, offering moral support from under the duvet. Outside, the world goes about its business. Ducks skid across the canal like poorly trained ice skaters. Dog-walkers in hats with bobbles stomp past, hands buried deep in pockets. Inside, we drink coffee and discuss whether the stove needs another log (it does), whether we should venture out today (perhaps), and whether Spikey and Bert will survive the month. Spikey is a cactus. Bert is a small tree. Both arrived this month, intended to bring a touch of green to life aboard. We are approaching them with the same cautious optimism one might apply to a new pet—hopeful but aware that things could go horribly wrong. Spikey, being a cactus, asks for very little. Bert, however, is a needier soul, prone to looking wilty if ignored for too long. Time will tell if they adapt to boat life, but we have high hopes. Work, as ever, has been varied. I have spent time as a speaker coach for a Skanska UK conference, helping others find their voices while preparing to step into another myself—next month, I start filming a big TV series. There have been hair and makeup tests, the usual process of transformation, and the careful slotting together of filming dates for another project, which has felt a little like assembling a particularly tricky jigsaw puzzle. And then there was a brief change in routine—two nights alone on the boat while Brayden was in Berlin. It had been eighteen months since I’d last spent a night solo, and I had, perhaps, forgotten what that felt like. The first evening, I caught myself listening for noises that weren’t there—the sound of him moving about, the familiar creak of a floorboard. But by the second, I had adjusted. I fed the fire, made dinner, and enjoyed the quiet. That said, I was glad when he came back. The boat is a fine place to be alone, but a finer one to share. February has been a month of good meals—stews thick enough to stand a spoon in, the occasional meal out when the mood takes us, and the simple but satisfying knowledge that, whatever the weather outside, inside Scout, the fire burns on.