If you’d told me when I was in my early 30s that, by the end of that decade, I would be living in a houseboat, I would never have believed you. I was a devoted Londoner, born and bred, and very wedded to my city lifestyle. I’d got a 100% mortgage and bought a tiny flat with a balcony, where I would host parties – and defy gravity – every weekend.
Romantically, I was jumping from one emotional disaster to another, falling for unsuitable people, closing my ears to those who dropped hints about biological clocks. I had my dream career in publishing and most weeknights could be found stumbling out of the Groucho Club and into a cab. In the early 00s, publishing was all about “networking” and there was always someone keen to go for “just one” – code for a late night of heavy drinking, often culminating in karaoke. I’d get out of bed at 9am the next day, get on the tube and be at my desk by 10, with my boss shaking his head knowingly at my “breakfast meeting” alibi. Then I’d do it all again.
