22.13pm:   St Michael, Riverside Dock, Tideway Walk, SW8, Nine Elms.

I cycled to town, had a meal, saw a movie, and rode home through Westminster and over Vauxhall Bridge, where a gang of kids on bicycles rode towards me. I thought nothing of it until I saw one of them raise his arm. Then there was the pain in my chest. A tennis ball bounced onto the road. By the time I understood that he had thrown it at me as hard as he could, the gang had gone. I was furious. My instinct was to chase after them, but then what would I do? Actually, I was lucky: it could have been worse. Funny, though, this is West London, one of the better neighbourhoods. It was still light and there were people around.

Coming home now, wheeling my bike over the gangplank, carrying it down the stairs and locking it to the side of the ship. My refuge.

On Tuesday18th May I went to see Chris on the St Michael. It was the last place I visited.

Of course. A ship. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

Each time I had squatted a new house, it felt like we were pirates capturing another ship. As we stole the electricity and gas, and gathered food from the rubbish, we acted like pirates plundering booty. We too were outsiders, and together we formed a crew: manning the squat as you would a ship at sea, fixing things, keeping a lookout, and defending it against marauding landlords. When an eviction date was imminent we abandoned the squat as pirates jump a sinking ship. Most of the time we even had rats.

So from squat to ship....

The St. Michael was magical. Quiet and cosy, it was like a secret wilderness in the middle of the city. The available room was the original captain’s cabin. It had a river view from the bed.

I had seen 16 places and was beginning to lose hope of ever finding somewhere to rent, so when Chris phoned me the next day to say the cabin was mine if I wanted it, I was ecstatic. Two weeks later I moved in.

That was three months ago. The ship hasn’t gone anywhere. It only floats for a few hours a day at high tide, rocking gently. I miss a different sort of movement.

The cards have fallen, but I’m not easily satisfied. Now I have to deal with paying rent. Although I’m working three jobs a week, I don’t understand where the money goes. I’m learning to get along with housemates from the real world. They’re okay as far as lawyers and programmers go, but one of them has the annoying habit of watching television with the volume up and his door open. The other  eats lamb chops every night for dinner, with a glass of Chardonnay and nothing else. They don’t know much about me. I’ve told them I get my fruit and veg from the skips at New Covent Garden Market, but I haven’t mentioned the other stuff. One step at a time.

The cards have fallen. I’ve decided to give it six months before I throw them in the air again. That’s only another three months. I can’t wait for that moment, when everything is unknown and possible.