So, I slept okay, and the Council believe I exist. At 8:30am on Tuesday—so I slept well, but not long—I walked to Oxford’s ‘Parking Shop’ to get some parking permits. To register a car for a residents permit I’d need a council tax bill and a log book to show the car registered to that address. For that I’d need a car too, but a tenancy agreement is said to be enough to pick up a pack of 25 visitors permits and those will prove to be very handy as the nearest car park is over three quid an hour. It turns out that the particular type of tenancy agreement isn’t official enough but, as my face fell, the kindly lady behind the glass said it was okay and slipped me a sheath of the permits. They look like the most boring scratchcards ever, but there’s a guaranteed prize of 24 hours parking with each one.

I’ve just ‘been met’ by a neighbour, I felt I had no control in it. Her name isn’t important, but her boat name now has slight Greek fascist connotations which I don’t think she’s realised. She introduced herself, adding the boat name as Daniel Craig might have done and was very defensive when I responded to her telling me how difficult car parking was by nodding agreement and mentioning that thankfully I wouldn’t have too much trouble. She has one, and she needs it. I didn’t really think through the lack of roads on the canal, and moving in proved to be a test of how well we could carry boxes and floppy linen from the main road loading bay to the stern. But, that done, temporary passes will do me.

Getting the internet connected is proving much more difficult, but I don’t think that the place being a boat is anything to do with that. The previous skipper had broadband and a phone, but seems to have cut it off rather than handing over the contract. This has led to the— extremely helpful—Plus Net confusingly having their attempts to connect me rebuffed. I now have my iPhone tethered, and an engineer booked for some point in the coming weeks. How they actually find the place is another matter.

Worrying about the costs of web connection means I’m feeling a little disconnected myself. Although, unlike the pump under the bed I don’t spark like a crashed scalextric car when touched.

The night before last was the first attempt to use the on-shore facilities. About three hundred yards and four boats up the towpath is a dark bricked and gated hut within which is another locked door. My mooring fees include two keys which gain me access to a washer and a dyer, and entry into a world of laundrette etiquette  added to by these being the sort of people who live on canal boats.

We’re all going to be a bit odd, right?

Days at sea: 4

Rations: A spicy cous cous salad from the Asda near work.

Stowed: Some tea towels and curtain hanging stuff from a hardware shop in Headington that had a thresholded picture of Chuck Norris to advertise the shoelaces behind the counter. Without comment that it was Chuck Norris, and without a reference to his shoes.