Today
I am awake. I slept.
Coffee, italian biscuits and paracetamol.
Ashtrayspotting.
I have to get used to this.
Rain and gusts of wind kept me on my toes last night. The pitter patter was nice at first. But there is only so much a man can take apparently. A good rest for exemple, considering my newly aquired status*, would be most welcome.
Living on a boat does not necessarily allow this. In many ways. I might talk about this another time.
Don't get me wrong though. I am a devoted narrowboater.
I want to believe in living with "less" to access "more".
I want to believe in other ways of living, where we don't need constant supply of "modern commodities" such as electricity, water and broadband internet connection. And landline.
Landline? When did I last received a call on a landline... When did I last have a landline? Do kids know what a landline is these days?
I'll be brief here, but landline, honestly...
In my brief encouter to landline (about twenty-one years, at which age I then got my frst mobile phone), I must say that it has not been always easy. Anyone who grew up with four sibblings like I did might know that, more than anything else, landlines bring discord. When a phone call needed to be made, there was always a sister or a brother using it.
The rule to get it quick then, was to be subtle. A blunt "how long you gonna be?" never worked... in fact it seemed to trigger an extra twenty minutes wait. At least.
A sly "mum is calling you in the kitchen" opened bloodthirsty retaliations.
Eventually the line'd be free. The tribulation started. A landline does not call a person, it calls a home. A palette of ready-made sentences were needed:
"sorry to disturb, I know it's dinner time but please could I speak to..."
"oh... they're not here... could you take a message, please?"
"Could you ask them to call me back between x am and y am, please?"
"Could you pass on that message, please?"
But really, above all, the threat of the bill waved by my then not so trans-parent dad, just when I managed to get hold of the landline, was probably the richest. It is a bit like being told to close the fridge, to keep the cold in, the exact second I've opened it to choose the yogurt I want to eat.
As a consequence, I probably haven't dated as many people I could have.
So no.
No regret.
Landline shall not be missed on a boat or anywhere else.
But confort and the ideal I make of it. Yes, maybe.
Therein lies the rub, as the bard would say.
I want to have confort and I am prepared to create and sustain this level of confort. I delimit where my threshold of tolerance is. And I have to stick to it. It teaches constance and earnestness. To be true to the choice.
But with cracked ribs, boy. The threshold wants lowering. The bed seems to be too high. The steps, so steep. The sofa, so... I don't have one. Dry land, a step too far.
But what really hides behind the corner, trying to catch me when I am most vulnerable, ready to confront me coldly, it is the duty to move the boat.
I am a constant cruiser.
I did not choose the name though. I would have gone for something else but that'll do for now.
I am a constant cruiser. So I need to cruise. It is like a contract between me, the British canal system which is a bit like my landlord, the International Navigation Rules, and the element.
Constant Cruisin' (for a bruisin')
After four years cruising London and nearby surrounding towns, I understand what a cyclic routine might be. It is knowing where the corner shop is, but not just in one corner. It is knowing the quickest tubes and buses route to the possible destinations to reach within this two weeks cycle. It is knowing where the launderettes are, how much it will cost, and knowing which ones would do it for me (!). It's keeping good relation with the local communities and shop keepers, because smiles are nice and being greeted when entering a shop is a decent aspiration for a landa city-dweller who grew up in a small village.
All that, in twelve different neighbourhoods.
I am a constant cruiser and as I said, I did not choose the name, because it means a hell of a lot more, to be a constant cruiser.
But with cracked ribs, I feel that I am to disown this title. For a while.
Today, I thought I would move the boat. To Victoria Park maybe. Or to Angel.
But I won't.
And I know that I might get in trouble for that. Not real trouble of course. I might get a patrol notice for overstaying. I tend to get a lot of them since May 2012. Moored in Angel, we regretably gathered one saturday morning, at the bow of the vessel, lovely Thursday's Child, to be merry and happy, to feel that the sun had finally pierced through eight months of thick winter clouds.
Not to the likings of a specific neighboor who has their house by the canal. They complained. They complained formally (anyone who has cruised for long enough and moored in Angel regularly will know who I refer to). On this, more recently, we could read this Pulitzer type article on the respectable Islington Gazette about dirty and noisy canal boats (Thursday's Child' moment of fame. No royalties paid yet though).
And then..
I am aching to move the boat but I can't, especially after Dr Block's warnings and my prime witness' advice. And the risk to catch a cold is too big. I know about sneezing now. Doctor was right.
I am also aching.
I might as well just stay.
Who cares? Well, I do.
I want to be a continuous cruiser. I would like to change neighbourhood and enter another cycle. Another routine. I believe in the good practice. Keeping moving, to let spaces free. To find free spaces. The river and canals are navigations path, not camping spots. I don't dry my underwears on a line between two pines.
It looks like I am going to settle here for a while. But under the circumstances, I'll settle for anywhere.
It looks like I am a bit upset. Because I am not sure what to make of staying. Overstaying.
Why do I care? I have always cared about that. It is kind of the condition number one to be a constant cruiser. Moving.
Maybe because I feel that, with cracked ribs, I let down a certain good practice.
Today I look through the window. I feed the swans with coconut crunchy oat. They like it.
And I wish to see boats passing. Boats cruising.
I wish someone would care moving. And someone else. And someone else. That would make me feel better.
Restaure the balance a bit.
Irma Thomas wished that someone would care. On a boat with cracked ribs, I can spend my afternoon wishing that someone would care cruising, because today, I won't.
I leave with this one
B.
* see my first post for precision if needed
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