THIS, as the kids would say.

My walk to work used to take me down a canal path with loads of these types moored up. I hate work more than anyone, but if freedom from the man means hanging my hand-washed undies on a minty little line while boiling a little metal pan full of water on a one ring gas burner to make a cup of tea with long-life milk, braced against miserable British weather, sitting on a couch that turns into a fucking ironing board or something, I’d sooner work until I was 102.