earn their keep from the flow and those who ferry about. Riverman makes a buck helping out at the narrowboat yard, he knows engines. And he can live on five pounds a day, alongside barter and a few veg boxes. He’s alone, even catless, and you can’t get any lonelier. He has time to read Mervyn Peake and David Jones, books he borrows from my not-yet shelves, myself being starved of time, though compared to many my afternoons are endless and indolent. If only my scribbled daydreams stood worth recording.
