There she goes

House sold subject to contract.

Exciting and a little sad.

I don't fall in love with houses really, except for my brother's place, and even then, it wasn't so much the house as the long garden with a grove of trees down the end. He never maintained it and I recall coming home from shifts at the studio, 3, 4, 5 in the morning; I would go out into the garden and walk, feeling the grass above my knees. When the wind blew, it rippled like fur on a beast's back, and the trees would move and sway... it was all a little different, a little unseelie. Security was never great.

Then the attack happened, and for all I loved the place, PTSD kicked into overdrive. Hypervigilance was wiping me out. So we found this place, full of air and light which I appreciated but didn't love because I still cared too much elsewhere. Then over the years we covered the boring garage wall with trellises, the hedge at the front was cut away, the trees are always beautiful, the roses went mad, birdsong filled the garden and when the wind howls it really rocks the hill. I love it. It healed me and makes me smile every single day. But I don't get much work done here, no dynamism touches me. I dither and live softly.

The buyer seems to be in love with it, which matters to me because it deserves love. I hope in our new house I can be stimulated into work, though the story I want to write during my editing break needs a trip to Belgium, which I might have to claim as research expenses.

I can't believe I will ever love a place as much as I do this. But then I didn't believe I could love a place as much as I did my brother's house, and long ago I didn't believe I could ever love anywhere as much as my blue room in Brixton.

I am a serial house-lover, just a very slow one.

Jay

Our neighbour is dead.

His son told two of us on the street today, and took our numbers for details of the funeral. We will attend.

Jay was from Sri Lanka; he always told us we should go there. He was a jolly man of well connected family, maybe even aristocracy in the old country. He loved his whisky and his jaguar, he was erudite and twinkling and very hospitable, a proud freemason who took us with him to a masonic 'Ladies Night.' He and his wife were proud of their family working hard, studying, doing well. He was patient as well as witty and a very gentle gentleman.

What do I remember of him? The ever reasonable tone in his voice. A particularly rasping lady on the street took him to task for his family parking all along the kerb. Her own were a two car bunch, so quite what their problem was I never knew. Most of the houses - not Jay's - have a garage, often a double one. She intimated as closely as she dared some not-quite hint about folk from elsewhere not understanding how things are done here. His response was utterly measured, no raised voice but a hint of a smile; 'I understand this street very well,' he said, 'I have lived here for 44 years.' She had no answer to this, and he never pressed too hard. They avoided each other after that.

Jay and Pearl's garden was completely overgrown. Right at the back is a huge ash tree that some other neighbours have wanted rid of; but that's where the owl sits when it comes calling, that ash tree brings us birdsong and squirrels and life. We talked about the eagerness of people around here to destroy the things that make the area special.

'Some say we should get rid of it,' he told me once.
'You'll never hear that from me,' I replied, 'I love trees.'
'So do I,' he nodded, 'I can't bear to chop them down.'

I don't know what will happen to that tree now. His wife has dementia, and children often have a ghastly habit of renovation. Suddenly, leaving feels a little easier.

Goodbye Jay x