Growing up certainly has its struggles. The younger me wandered around town thinking, no, dreaming, of being a writer, going so far as to invent holidays and travel stories on the hour or so spent walking from home to an arbitrary place on the outskirts of town. Today I wonder the ease of which someone could dream of becoming younger.
Finding somewhere to rent – the concept of buying a house is total Alice In Wonderland territory – with such a tight timeframe exhausts and bemuses me somewhat. Those twin deamons, Mr Fate and Mrs Fortune, have assisted the Darlingian Bounce by brushing up house prices. Estate Agents assume my solo status offers deep pockets. Looking for rooms to rent is a peculiar game, a form of real-estate reality television game show, with total strangers many in number walking into the studio half-way through the Bonus Round waving a cheque like Hazel Blears gazumping before you know what’s happened.
I walk from each To Let sign looking similar to a minor character in a low-budget French film. There should be close-ups of my hand running across fences and out-of-focus shots of my shoes. There are clocks ticking, and spoons clattering, and fuzzy white noise from radios, and it’s all in my head, but out there is a reality I cannot find the deposit for. Never mind house-hunting, never mind finding counting angels dancing on the head of a pin, I couldn’t find a barn-door with a banjo at this rate.