Ove tucks his hands into his pockets. He directs a slightly imperious kick at the baseboard.
This row house is slightly too big for Ove and his wife, really, he can just about admit that.
But it’s all paid for. There’s not a penny left in loans. Which is certainly more than one could say for the clotheshorse.
It’s all loans nowadays; everyone knows the way people carry on.
Ove has paid his mortgage. Done his duty. Gone to work. Never taken a day of sick leave.
Shouldered his share of the burden. Taken a bit of responsibility.
No one does that anymore, no one takes responsibility.
Now it’s just computers and consultants and council bigwigs going to strip clubs and selling apartment leases under the table.
Tax havens and share portfolios. No one wants to work. A country full of people who just want to have lunch all day.
“Won’t it be nice to slow down a bit?” they said to Ove yesterday at work.
While explaining that there was a lack of employment prospects and so they were “retiring the older generation.”
A third of a century in the same workplace, and that’s how they refer to Ove.
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