consideration for a lovely, lonely old lady.
‘Do you think,’ asked Venetia, as they walked back to Golders Green Underground, and Frances felt the baby churning and kicking inside her, ‘that Barbara’s soul will enter into the baby?’
It’s House Prices, Stupid!
Surprisingly, Venetia and Karl got on well enough. That is to say, Venetia adored Karl and he tolerated her. It was all the more disturbing for the girl when he left us for the Dumpling. But all that divorce and broken-hearted stuff must be left for a subsequent chapter: it is the history of the house and the economy that matters now.
When I bought Karl out of my share in the house in 1979 it cost me £60,000. (He was bitter about that, understandably, since he had given it to me in the first place.) Twenty years later it was worth £750,000. Then came the Labour Government of 1997 and the Consumer Decade – as it is now called – and by 2007 the house next door to me sold for £1.85 million. Then came the Shock of 2008, the Crunch of 2009–11 – when house prices plummeted and still no-one was buying; then the brief Recovery of 2012, when at least properties began to change hands again, though our friendly European neighbours became less friendly, the US embraced protectionism and the rest of the world had no choice but to follow. And then came the Bite, which is now, and with it a coalition and thoroughly
dirigiste
government which keeps its motives and actions very much to itself. And though a few major figures in the financial world went to prison, the
nomenklatura
still ride the middle lanes, have their mortgages paid for them, and do very well,thank you. The rest of us are presumably moving to the outskirts: fifty years on and we are back to where we began. I reckon I had the best of it.
In 1810 when this house was built there was 36 per cent inflation; in 1933, 38 per cent deflation; in 1977, 26 per cent inflation: by 2011, 10 per cent deflation and the last time I looked inflation was 27 per cent and rising. I marvel at how accurately I can remember the details of house prices and economic history, and how vaguely I recall the dates of my personal life. These seem to have their own narrative, little to do with the actual statistics of birth, marriage and death. Emotional truths are registered in the memory, clouded by wishful thinking or lingering resentments. Even at the time you live through them it is hard enough to keep up. The stroppy three-year-old looms so large in the mother’s consciousness she is astonished to find it is so tiny and helpless, when the first day of nursery school arrives. When the clingy teenager declares she is pregnant the mother is amazed: she had thought her daughter was a child.
But ask me for inflation statistics and I can be relied upon to be both accurate and knowledgeable. Violent swings are commonplace, always uncomfortable for some, and comfortable for others. I studied Economics at college in the days when the Theory of Value held good and monetarism and its excitements had not yet seduced governments with their vision of infinite growth, and continuous progress, and lads like my grandson Ethan were not lured away into the City to dance, demons on the heads of pins, instead of becoming scientists, doctors, accountants, civil servants, proper people. The banksters are excoriated now, but they too were conned, like everyone else.
I could claim moral rights and demand that Amos, Ethan and Mervyn take me in to the very small house in Hunter’s Alley that Ibought for them in the Consumer Decade. But I wouldn’t want that. And Corey and Polly and the children live in a very small apartment, and I do not think I could live with Venetia and Victor, who is too like Mr Collins in
Pride and Prejudice
for comfort. No, I will throw myself upon the State and the comfort of strangers. According to all accounts, it is usually to be had. Those who know you least well go out of their way to help. It’s familiarity
‘Do you think,’ asked Venetia, as they walked back to Golders Green Underground, and Frances felt the baby churning and kicking inside her, ‘that Barbara’s soul will enter into the baby?’
It’s House Prices, Stupid!
Surprisingly, Venetia and Karl got on well enough. That is to say, Venetia adored Karl and he tolerated her. It was all the more disturbing for the girl when he left us for the Dumpling. But all that divorce and broken-hearted stuff must be left for a subsequent chapter: it is the history of the house and the economy that matters now.
When I bought Karl out of my share in the house in 1979 it cost me £60,000. (He was bitter about that, understandably, since he had given it to me in the first place.) Twenty years later it was worth £750,000. Then came the Labour Government of 1997 and the Consumer Decade – as it is now called – and by 2007 the house next door to me sold for £1.85 million. Then came the Shock of 2008, the Crunch of 2009–11 – when house prices plummeted and still no-one was buying; then the brief Recovery of 2012, when at least properties began to change hands again, though our friendly European neighbours became less friendly, the US embraced protectionism and the rest of the world had no choice but to follow. And then came the Bite, which is now, and with it a coalition and thoroughly
dirigiste
government which keeps its motives and actions very much to itself. And though a few major figures in the financial world went to prison, the
nomenklatura
still ride the middle lanes, have their mortgages paid for them, and do very well,thank you. The rest of us are presumably moving to the outskirts: fifty years on and we are back to where we began. I reckon I had the best of it.
In 1810 when this house was built there was 36 per cent inflation; in 1933, 38 per cent deflation; in 1977, 26 per cent inflation: by 2011, 10 per cent deflation and the last time I looked inflation was 27 per cent and rising. I marvel at how accurately I can remember the details of house prices and economic history, and how vaguely I recall the dates of my personal life. These seem to have their own narrative, little to do with the actual statistics of birth, marriage and death. Emotional truths are registered in the memory, clouded by wishful thinking or lingering resentments. Even at the time you live through them it is hard enough to keep up. The stroppy three-year-old looms so large in the mother’s consciousness she is astonished to find it is so tiny and helpless, when the first day of nursery school arrives. When the clingy teenager declares she is pregnant the mother is amazed: she had thought her daughter was a child.
But ask me for inflation statistics and I can be relied upon to be both accurate and knowledgeable. Violent swings are commonplace, always uncomfortable for some, and comfortable for others. I studied Economics at college in the days when the Theory of Value held good and monetarism and its excitements had not yet seduced governments with their vision of infinite growth, and continuous progress, and lads like my grandson Ethan were not lured away into the City to dance, demons on the heads of pins, instead of becoming scientists, doctors, accountants, civil servants, proper people. The banksters are excoriated now, but they too were conned, like everyone else.
I could claim moral rights and demand that Amos, Ethan and Mervyn take me in to the very small house in Hunter’s Alley that Ibought for them in the Consumer Decade. But I wouldn’t want that. And Corey and Polly and the children live in a very small apartment, and I do not think I could live with Venetia and Victor, who is too like Mr Collins in
Pride and Prejudice
for comfort. No, I will throw myself upon the State and the comfort of strangers. According to all accounts, it is usually to be had. Those who know you least well go out of their way to help. It’s familiarity
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