A chair is still a chair
Isn’t it interesting that you can choose to see your place dependent on the streets close to home that you decide to take? Avoid the back streets, the alleyways – those narrow, dark places lined with overflowing bins, burst bags of rubbish scattered across the pavements for the foxes, graffiti, and the smell of something stronger than cigarette smoke. Take the high road: that higher ground that leads past houses you could never afford- those central London multi-million pound, multi-storey fortresses with tidy gardens and security systems that leave their inhabitants at peace sufficient to maintain windows without the curtains drawn late into the evenings, allowing you to look inside and look at that life: the one you aspire to. The one you once thought you would make happen. The one that slipped you by. There they are: those people that you live next door to- these are your neighbours- the ones that you choose to be closer to by order of omission. Omiss the person you aren’t, omiss the streets that mark you as the person that you refuse to be, take the long way home and build a posh-fenced fortress around your imagined house: the one that you live in now: the one that you choose to view in this way- side by side with the people who can afford to imagine other things and dream of different pastures.
Mum and Dad have always been big on that. They say phrases like ‘the grass is always greener’ and ‘spend more now, pay less later.’ They have certainly said something about home and being at home, and what makes a home. June can’t think of what exactly, now. But they’ve never been shy about trying to transform their council flat into something grander. And, you know, living in London, it’s really not hard to do. Walk out the door, you’re on the doorstep of millionaires and nice parks. Take a tube, walk through the business district. See all that life and that big money. Take a train, walk through markets and into small book shops and past people laughing. There’s all of this, right here. What more could you need?
Beatrice has this devastating habit. She’ll be walking home, a little wine tipsy, from some work thing. Red lip. Heels. Dress with a slit up the thigh. Trench coat. She’ll stop and look at the window of an estate agent. Big house, that one’s quite nice. Eight million. Smaller house, good windows- good light, east facing. Six million. There’s one on the river. A little flat. Only five million. And up and up they go. There’s this stretch of about four estate agents on the walk home from the pub that Bea’s work frequents most Friday nights. It’s a gutting walk home beyond that point, really. She has to keep her head down real low, tuck her chin into the collar of her coat, and avoid the gazes of other folks out boozing. They always shout something at her. She’s on a streak of about nineteen weeks now. That’s nineteen weeks of walking home and hearing some peculiar something hurled her way. Something about her tits or her face or her eyes. Nothing about her laugh or her smile. She’ll get home. Stan will ask for a cup of tea. June will be hidden away in her room or not home at all. Big sigh, deep breath, big smile, deep breath. Onwards. This is life: there is all of it, and it’s right here. She has it all, really. What more could she need?
Dad’s on one again. He asked for a cup of tea, apparently. Or that’s what June can ascertain about the origins of this big blow-up through the walls. A tea, from the woman I love, after a hard day at the office, like, it’s not a fucking request for a lung or nowt. Make it yourself, Mum says. Or June hopes that what she says. Judging by the quieting of dad, now, and the sound of the kettle getting flicked on, it’s far more likely that she did one of her deep sighs and shuffled over to the kettle with a yes, dear. You can make a good brew; you always do it better than I do, you know that, love. Yes, dear, Mum replies. June heard that one. Big sigh. The tap of a mug being set on the counter. The fridge door opening and clicking closed, softly. The kettle turning off. Silence. The clinking of a metal spoon. The fridge door opening and closing again. The spoon hitting the bottom of the sink. Thanks, love. June shuffles down so she’s lying flat on her back and puts on her headphones. How lovely to be home. She can’t wait to get out of this place. There’s got to be something more out there.