Her money was like water, in its big nothingness and the way it slipped away before she really had it. This is what Cynthia has now: her boat, Anahera and Snot-head. The boat has everything a house would – a toilet, beds, sinks, only smaller and more fragile, like a tiny set of organs. At the front there’s a washing-line, and a flattish area underneath where they can lie down, although of course it won’t be safe there for the dog. Along the boat are bars to hold while you walk its perimeter, and a thin panel for your feet, one after the other. There’s a ladder which can be pulled up or dropped into the water. At the back of the boat there’s a steering wheel, and an unsteady seat that flips out under it.

It’s all perfect for Snot-head he’s little too.

She opens a little door and finds a toilet, and a sink. Opposite the table is a kitchen sink, a small counter and some cupboards they’ll keep food in. She finds that the tops come off the built-in seats on either side of the table, and that inside them are long panels of cushioning, presumably to make up another, third bed. A little cabin, with a short, narrow bunk bed. There’s a trap-door in the ceiling, so they can keep things up there. There are windows, curtains and lots of little cupboards for Cynthia to open. That must be where the boat salesman lives, she decides.Īnahera goes back in the dinghy for the rest of their stuff. Big houses with a lot of glass windows look down on them from the hills. Snot-head runs around fast, sniffing everything, and Cynthia watches on. The water lifts her sometimes, then drops back under, exhibiting her dirty underneath. Image: Bo Nielsen, flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)īaby appears gradually from behind all the bigger, more robust boats, dancing like something imaginary.

Baby by Annaleese Jochems