Misses and (mis)fortunes

1 The man who was sleeping in the cupboard is now sleeping on the sofa; a lodger has taken his place in the cupboard. The cousin, the director of the household, requires him to pay his way. He cannot. Accordingly, he is to leave the sofa and the house on Monday. On that day he will carry his belongings, including his laptop, go to Lunar House, to sign on, and then discover where he is to sleep that night. In detention, maybe; in a B-and-B, perhaps; someone else, that is, the street, a possibility. The RBL will find him a B-and-B for a week or two, a short-term measure to provide thinking-time.

2 The 45-year-old man would regard the sofa as an improvement. He suffered a gunshot wound 24 years ago; he was awarded a War Pension; 24 years on, by his account, he drinks to cope with the flashbacks, to get to sleep; he continues to smoke 40 cigarettes a day even though he has lung cancer, even though he has epilectic fits.

3 And so the conversation turns to the matters of the comfortable, the fortunate day. Swimming, amiable work on a laptop, another cup of tea. Amiable walking in the evening to the bridge club. Just as amiable walking (half-way) to home. Later, the house will be cleaned, the clothes will be ironed. How fortunate we are; how fortunate we are.

5 And I reckon I will find the missing application form. It's here somewhere. It can't have gone far. It must be here. It must

6 Time to think of your return, travelling lady. Time to return to East Grinstead, to take possession of your house, your networks. Time to chat, about the Black Hills, about the books you have read. Stayathome, the one at the bottom of the Close, awaits your return. ABCD - amiability, bodies, company, and dialectic.

7 During the day I will buy a photograph-holder for the man's Army Certificate of Education, awarded in July 1987.

8 Send One Big Idea from the book about Berlin.


Thinking of you.

Stayathome