After weeks of indescribable stress punctuated by missed deadlines and a lot of wine, we made it through. I learnt how to keep my new home warm and safe, met the neighbours, and acclimatised to the hideous walk round the back of a council estate and through a padlocked gate that led to our private mooring. But just as I was getting settled, things really started to go wrong. First our gas stopped working for no apparent reason, then our windows started leaking every time it rained; the chimney needed replacing, as did the boiler, and then the water pump started acting up. One afternoon I walked onto the boat and smelt gas. I held my breath, switched everything off, left the boat and, shaking, burst into tears before I reached the bus stop. I couldn’t deal with my home feeling like a bewildering, scary space anymore; I couldn’t handle another week without being able to shower or cook anything because I was too panicked to switch on the gas. I was constantly on edge, focusing on any noise or smell that might be out of the ordinary, waiting for the next thing that was going to go wrong. I was ready to give up. That was just before Christmas and since then – miraculously – we’ve had no major calamities, but things are still much harder than I anticipated. Our pipes have frozen over, the shower is either lukewarm or scorching hot and the local launderette turns out to be where Hackney’s crack dealers do business. Some things will be easier in the summer, when we don’t have to worry about constantly keeping the fire alight and the long days let us go back to solar-powered energy, but it will also bring about its own set of challenges, namely, how not to suffocate in what tends to feel like a greenhouse in the heat. Much like any other huge project, the boat seems to have taken over my life to a degree I wasn’t prepared for. Most people’s first question when they see me is no longer how I am, but how the boat is. Conversations about my living arrangements can dominate meetings which are supposed to be about my writing, my career, my future. And sometimes my boyfriend and I will sit down to eat dinner, look at each other and realise it’s been days since we had a real conversation about anything other than the logistics of putting up curtains on a slanted wall, or whether it’s reasonable to store our jumpers in vacuum-packed bags on a daily basis to save space. I wish I could tell you that all this is worth it because the boat feels like home but the truth is, on most days I would still rather live in a normal house with a fridge, central heating, a bathroom with a door and enough space to have more than two people over for dinner at once. These past few months on the boat have also changed me for the better, though: I understand how little certain things actually matter, I’ve realised I can handle so much more than I ever thought I could and learn skills I never would have otherwise, and I’m proud of that. When we do eventually move into a house, I know there’s a small part of me that will miss the cosy, simple days where we shared a tiny space which had everything we needed and nothing more, and every morning marked a new adventure into the unknown.