I mean, everyone’s got one, right? Er, wrong. I’m 45, gainfully employed and have never been a homeowner.
In fact, I’ve just never been rich enough – at least not to buy myself a flat in London. Mine is a situation for which I take full responsibility: ten years teaching and researching at university was good for the mind, but unhelpful to the bank balance.
Isn’t this the bird who just told us a few months back that she was sober for the first time in 20 years?
And we’re not talking about american style alcoholism but proper “Jeebus God, what happened the last two days?” stuff?
For, increasingly, there were things I did not love. The “scrapes” I got into in my 20s were less amusing in my 40s; moments in which I injured myself, alienated friends, and subjected myself to dismal humiliation. The “lost time” (never “blackouts”) that startled me in my early 30s became my routine way of getting home. And I was tired – stultifyingly, deadeningly tired.
“Alcoholic didn’t buy house” isn’t much of a story, is it?