I suspect there comes a time in life when you set down roots like a dandelion and just do not want to pull them up. If so, I think I have got there.
It was humbling to discover that when, during the COVID years, I began to bake bread and grow vegetables, so did hundreds of thousands of other women. It was mortifying to discover that I might not be a totally autonomous being, or that under certain circumstances I just do what most other women do.
And let's face it, when the BBC first reported on COVID as if we were all going to die, I was as terrified as almost everyone else. I even once wiped down our groceries. Indeed, if I hadn't been assigned to watch the Yellow Card (i.e. British reports of vaccine injuries) scheme, I might even have got the jab.
What brings on this bout of introspection? It was Benedict Ambrose suggesting, last week, that we go look at a property he had seen on RightMove. (RightMove is a real estate website, online crack for middle-aged Britons.) This house is in our price range, it is in a neighbourhood of beautiful houses, it has a conservatory. It is also an ugly, semi-detached, tan pebbledash squab of a thing, a poor relation of the gracious stone houses around it.
Okay, it's not that bad, and I acknowledge the wisdom of "the cheapest possible house on the best possible street." However, the mere suggestion that we see this property brought me to the edge of depression.
This was obviously an over-reaction, so I examined my problems with the place. Was it the colour? (I grew up in a pretty white pebbledash house, so it wasn't the texture per se.) Was it the location across town? Was it the distance from Tesco? Was it the absence of trees across the street? Was it the complication of getting a higher mortgage than the mortgage we already have?
And then it hit me that what I was feeling was the primal fear of losing my home. For, as small and humble and 1930s-factory-worker our flat is, it is home. It also gets a lot of sun, it has beautiful views, and it has an apple tree. The street is not particularly crime-ridden but also not so respectable that neighbours called the police on each other for COVID infractions. In my opinion, there is really nothing wrong with our flat that some clever DIY wouldn't fix.
I began by giving the place a thorough hoovering, weeding the veggie trug, sending away our most battered chairs, buying a guest bed, and researching door paint. In the evenings, I look at online advice for redecorating narrow hallways.
What happened to the woman who got married and moved over 3,000 miles to be with B.A.? Now I won't even move across town. I must be getting old--but I don't care. I'm not budging. I've grown a taproot, and if someone tries to pull me out, I'll break up the concrete.
Even in my semi-posh suburb (it's more middle-upper-middle than upper-middle), no one would have dreamt of reporting on their neighbours for Covid infractions. I suspect, though, that it's because the neighbourhood skews elderly to very old. The people who first moved to this suburb in the late 1960s have tended to remain here. They belong to a generation that did not expect their government to force them to do anything more than pay taxes, or, in extreme circumstances, to go to war.
ReplyDeleteThe tattling tendency doesn't reflect well on younger people, of course. I wonder if it's because they have been taught to hate 'boomers', among whom they include everyone born between 1945 to 1965, in spite of the vast social changes that occurred during those years. Like if you were born in 1945 and graduated from high school in 1963, or from university in 1966, the chances were you could find a job with ease. Born after 1950, that was less likely; born after 1960, nearly impossible.
Good neighbours who mind their business and help out when required are worth their weight in gold. To latch on to Clio's comment I do think we are surrounded by people who think The Authorities are your friend. Living in a neighbourhood where granny and grandad, daughters, sons and grandchildren in multiples reside it's rare I see the Guards. Weekly reports via whatsapp or in conversation as to what's good and bad happening in the area. There is one rat to The Authorities and he gives the time of day to no-one. Above us all.
ReplyDeleteThere's an inherent loneliness to life for these 'Nowheres' as PM Theresa May called them. Very sad. They will not settle down and commit to a neighbourhood, always ready to move on.
Sinéad