I am sitting here today, on the 28th day of June 2021, at the age of 59, in our new fancy apartment in Brighton.
(It’s far too fancy to be called a flat btw, it’s pretty much the perfect penthouse I always imagined living in when I was older, except it’s not on the top floor, but on the penultimate floor in this block.)
And I’m not older, yet, either. Well, certainly not as old as I’d envisaged I’d have to be, to live in an apartment like this. Brand new, still sparkling clean, full of brand new furniture, right next to the North Laines, with a lift. I can hear the Speigle Tent of the Brighton Fringe for heaven’s sake, you can’t get much more central.
I can even have a little dog if I want to and in my daydream, there was always a little dog. I am not going to get a little dog yet, far too much responsibility, but I could if I want to. It says so in the lease.
There’s an amazing and unexpected bonus which is that my daughter Phoebe is here too. Now that’s something I never imagined, thinking that when I was old enough for this apartment, she’d be off having her own family. She’s not quite there at that stage of her life yet, it all having happened much suddenly and earlier than anticipated, so here she is. Living with her old ma, issuing strict instructions about how I am not to behave like a Ma, ever, at all.
If you look back, you’ll see my last blog post was written around the 12th of March 2020, when we thought a pandemic was on the way.
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