Shall I get back to das Boot this month? I don’t know. It isn’t looking likely, but an overnight stay would be great. I am extraordinarily lucky to have this bolthole.
I don’t live in the most glamorous or wealthy part of London. In fact some near neighbours are evidently living in great poverty. One woman I see most days tripping up and down my street. She is probably no older than I am, but there is something about her that makes it hard to imagine she was ever young. One winter, I noticed she was wearing unsuitable sparkly sandals. It dawned on me that those were the only shoes she owned.
I don’t consider myself well off, and I think my accountant, which sounds very grand but is a necessary expense when you are self-employed and struggle with tax forms, would laugh himself to death if you suggested I were. But compared to that woman, I might as well be Victoria Beckham. Education, expectation, have riven a gap between our lives as graet as the Grand Canyon.
Should she turn around to me and say she had spent time away anywhere, be it tent, B&B or hotel, I should be amazed. If she said she owned a boat or a caravan, my jaw would probably hit the floor.
Well-offness is relative; George Osborne would doubtless consider me a pauper; but in many ways I am well off, and believe me, I’m grateful.