by I called my parents on Thursday night. Mum quickly left to play tennis – her first foray onto the court for ages – leaving just Dad and me. What a conversation it was. Skype still tells me it lasted 55 minutes. He said he was devastated by the business with their house. He isn’t someone to use words like that lightly. He said the decision to move from their large but practical two-acre section into their current place – Mum’s decision, ultimately – was a big mistake, and he was deeply moved by Mum’s sincere apology. They now both feel that, in their seventies, they’ve taken on a nightmare that will run and run. We feel so stupid. I was upset and couldn’t think of anything helpful to say even if I know all about property nightmares. They shouldn’t be facing all this unnecessary stress. Mum can’t let anybody know that they’ve had these problems – the shame would be too great – and now won’t invite anybody over. This is all a sign of the times – older people with money, still wanting something bigger and better, never happy with what they have. Plus, until now they’ve always won with property; they’ve never seen it for what it is – a high-stakes poker game that can reap rich rewards but can wreck you for years if the cards turn against you. Dad said they’ll get another quote for their current project, but will probably end up with a more modest plan and once that’s done – how long will it take? – they’ll put the house on the market.
I had a strange dream last night. Well, early this morning. In the dream I was about 25, and for some reason about to return to university where I’d be sharing a room in a hall of residence just like I had a few years prior. I was dreading it. I saw the room I’d soon be moving into – room 205. Just like an old Peugeot, I thought. There was a message on the door of the room, clearly penned by a female hand, that bizarrely included the word “fuckability”. I was worried that I’d get into watching football again. That thought surely came about after watching that football match in real life last Tuesday, and because watching football was part of my real-life university experience. I’d watch the Sunday afternoon games in the TV room, mainly to get respite from all the interactions with people that were impossible for me; as the clock ticked past the 70-minute mark I’d always get that horrible feeling that my escape was nearly over.
