What does my canal boat say about me?
“My having a boat says I’m restless. Living on a boat is a bid for hippy freedom. My parents definitely instilled that in me.”
And what it really says
I have a feeling I’ve met Patrick before. He looks like a lot of people I know, people who like music and reclamation and living outside in vans or tents or boats. If it were the 1980s, he’d have been seriously considering a move to join Archaos. Or if not, a move to document Archaos. Circus embeddedment.
He’s clearly lived in his canal boat for some time: this is an interior that is comfortable, with mementos and knick-knacks peeking out everywhere. There are a few black-and-white photographs of past good times; cushions faded by drying in the sun; a decent radio.
It’s a proper home, and it’s a home that’s not cost very much. I’d say that almost everything has been found, or bought for a few pence. I bet Patrick is a champion skip-scrumper, a man who can spot an abandoned pallet at 50 paces and know just what to do with it. His own look should be noted, too: those Pumas are classics, treated with insouciant disrespect.
People who live on boats deliberately put themselves outside normal life. They create their own communities apart from everyone else. They move on when they want. They reject acquisition for acquisition’s sake – their possessions consist only of essentials and the much loved. They spend vast amounts of time outdoors, and that changes you. It’s hard to worry about Brexit when you’re busy strapping down your roof in high winds.
I bet Patrick goes out a lot and I bet living on his boat means he can make sense of the things he sees when he’s out. A canal boat gives you an unusual angle on cities. You see how they function, their inner workings. They make you resourceful and relaxed, able to discern what really matters in life and make it work for you.
If you would like Miranda to cast an eye over your favourite possession, email a photograph to magazine@observer.co.uk
