I couldn’t possibly afford to live in this postcode otherwise, certainly not on the pittance that Bob pays me.
Social Services arranged for me to move here after I had to leave my last foster placement, the summer immediately before I started university.
I’d just turned seventeen. Back then, a vulnerable young person who’d grown up in care would be allocated a council flat
close to her place of study without it being too much of a problem. Imagine that.
It took me a while to get around to decorating, I remember, and I finally painted the place in the summer after I graduated.
I bought emulsion and brushes after cashing a check I received in the post from the University Registry, along with my degree parchment;
it turned out that I’d won a small prize, set up in the name of some long-dead classicist,
for the best finals performance in a paper on Virgil’s Georgics.
I graduated in absentia of course; it seemed pointless to process onto the stage with no one there to applaud me.
The flat hadn’t been touched since then. I suppose, trying to be objective, that it was looking rather tired.
Mummy always said that an obsession with home interiors was tediously bourgeois and, worse still,
that any kind of “do-it-yourself” activities were very much the preserve of the hoi polloi.
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