The rain on the canal this morning was lovely; there was a storm around half six; later on I was sitting out on the bow, repairing the straps on the stern rain cover drinking a big enamel cup of black tea, when it came again.

Earlier a hire boat passed the moorings at seven thirty; they came back an hour and a half later; they said they were going into little venice & back, then down to Brentford. Canal trips with a rushed itinery and places to tick off the list; why bother? I pottered around, installed some drawers, investigated the frankly ropey kitchen sink plumbing (half of which has come home with me), and hopefully have found a solution to why the batteries weren't charging properly. No, not that exciting, but what the hell. I slept in the second convertible berth last night; if it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you. Time passes gently, interspersed with episodes of life; the cat stuck on the opposite bank of the canal late last night, the occupants of the boat next door shreiking at the football. Chats & gossip; people I've never met before know who I am, which is my boat, and ask after the fuel leak. Within reason, I like that. It's what I wanted.