delirious. I can barely contain my excitement. It’s as if I’ve never eaten before. She can only imagine what kind of life I usually lead.
Sal refuses to visit my flat, of course. It’s too squalid. The plaster dust. The slugs. And there’s rubble in the shower. How do I wash? Do I wash? And there’s no food. Nothing. I can’t have food in my house, I’ve told them, because I eat it all. I binge. I stuff myself. I make myself ill almost immediately. So there’s no food.
Then, too, I’ve no fridge, and nowhere to store food. There’s no electricity in the kitchen, and besides, it’s dismantled, ready for another round of damp-proofing. The walls are so wet! It’s like touching the skin of a frog—clammy.
Sal can imagine a terrible plague spreading from the flat. A new kind of illness, which travels by damp spores. And the flat’s so dark! It’s like being buried underground, staying at the flat, she says. It’s like being buried alive.—‘And you haven’t told her about the rats yet’, W. says.
W. remembers the worst, he says. He remembers the green dressing gown with its great holes. He remembers the stretches of white flesh which showed through those holes.—‘Your rolls of fat’, says W.
It was like the story of Noah over again, when Shem saw his father naked. He might as well have seen me naked, W. says, and shudders. Actually, that would have been better. But the green dressing gown, with its holes … It was the worst of sights, W. says. The very worst.
‘Compare this house to your flat’, W. says. ‘How high are your ceilings? As high as these?’ W.’s ceilings are fifteen feet high. No, they’re not that high, I tell him. My flat’s tiny, which he knows full well.—‘How dry is your flat?’, W. says, knowing the answer. It’s not dry at all, I tell him. His house is as dry as a bone , W. tells me. It couldn’t be drier. And of course, W.’s house is rat-free, he tells me.
‘Do you think you’ve failed?’, W. says. And then, ‘Was buying your flat the outcome of your failure, or did it merely complete your failure?’
Why did I buy my flat? What led me to it? W. wants to be taken through the decision-making process step by step, he says. And I really had no idea about the damp when I viewed it? My surveyors didn’t tell me about the underground river? My bank didn’t withhold my loan when they heard that it was built on top of a mineshaft, and was collapsing in the middle?
It’s where I thought I deserved to live, W. says. It’s whatI thought I warranted . W., of course, ended up in a three storey Georgian townhouse. He’s still amazed by that. How did he end up with this kind of house, and a lecturing job, and a woman who loves him?
Ah, but these are his last days in his house, he’s certain of it. These are his last days in his job. And are these his last days with Sal, too? She would never leave him, W. says. Surely, she would never leave him …
His last days … he feels it in the air, as animals sense a storm. It’s building up out there, W. says, it’s massing like storm clouds over Plymouth Sound.
‘Take some photos’, W. says. ‘It needs to be documented!’ I photograph the wide entrance hall and the stairs to the next floor. I photograph the ground floor living room, with internal shutters over the window and a marble fireplace. I photograph the CDs lined up alphabetically on the shelf, and the pile of CDs without covers by the ghetto blaster.
I photograph full ashtrays and discarded Emmenthal packets. I photograph the great kitchen where sometimes we dance, sliding on our socks, and the tiny toilet on the ground floor, with pictures of their friends on the wall. Why haven’t they got a picture of me?, I ask them. No reply.
Upstairs, I document the great living room in a series of photos which, laid edge to edge, would give the whole panorama: the wide floorboards and the high, old skirting; the tall windows, newly restored; the king-sized
Sal refuses to visit my flat, of course. It’s too squalid. The plaster dust. The slugs. And there’s rubble in the shower. How do I wash? Do I wash? And there’s no food. Nothing. I can’t have food in my house, I’ve told them, because I eat it all. I binge. I stuff myself. I make myself ill almost immediately. So there’s no food.
Then, too, I’ve no fridge, and nowhere to store food. There’s no electricity in the kitchen, and besides, it’s dismantled, ready for another round of damp-proofing. The walls are so wet! It’s like touching the skin of a frog—clammy.
Sal can imagine a terrible plague spreading from the flat. A new kind of illness, which travels by damp spores. And the flat’s so dark! It’s like being buried underground, staying at the flat, she says. It’s like being buried alive.—‘And you haven’t told her about the rats yet’, W. says.
W. remembers the worst, he says. He remembers the green dressing gown with its great holes. He remembers the stretches of white flesh which showed through those holes.—‘Your rolls of fat’, says W.
It was like the story of Noah over again, when Shem saw his father naked. He might as well have seen me naked, W. says, and shudders. Actually, that would have been better. But the green dressing gown, with its holes … It was the worst of sights, W. says. The very worst.
‘Compare this house to your flat’, W. says. ‘How high are your ceilings? As high as these?’ W.’s ceilings are fifteen feet high. No, they’re not that high, I tell him. My flat’s tiny, which he knows full well.—‘How dry is your flat?’, W. says, knowing the answer. It’s not dry at all, I tell him. His house is as dry as a bone , W. tells me. It couldn’t be drier. And of course, W.’s house is rat-free, he tells me.
‘Do you think you’ve failed?’, W. says. And then, ‘Was buying your flat the outcome of your failure, or did it merely complete your failure?’
Why did I buy my flat? What led me to it? W. wants to be taken through the decision-making process step by step, he says. And I really had no idea about the damp when I viewed it? My surveyors didn’t tell me about the underground river? My bank didn’t withhold my loan when they heard that it was built on top of a mineshaft, and was collapsing in the middle?
It’s where I thought I deserved to live, W. says. It’s whatI thought I warranted . W., of course, ended up in a three storey Georgian townhouse. He’s still amazed by that. How did he end up with this kind of house, and a lecturing job, and a woman who loves him?
Ah, but these are his last days in his house, he’s certain of it. These are his last days in his job. And are these his last days with Sal, too? She would never leave him, W. says. Surely, she would never leave him …
His last days … he feels it in the air, as animals sense a storm. It’s building up out there, W. says, it’s massing like storm clouds over Plymouth Sound.
‘Take some photos’, W. says. ‘It needs to be documented!’ I photograph the wide entrance hall and the stairs to the next floor. I photograph the ground floor living room, with internal shutters over the window and a marble fireplace. I photograph the CDs lined up alphabetically on the shelf, and the pile of CDs without covers by the ghetto blaster.
I photograph full ashtrays and discarded Emmenthal packets. I photograph the great kitchen where sometimes we dance, sliding on our socks, and the tiny toilet on the ground floor, with pictures of their friends on the wall. Why haven’t they got a picture of me?, I ask them. No reply.
Upstairs, I document the great living room in a series of photos which, laid edge to edge, would give the whole panorama: the wide floorboards and the high, old skirting; the tall windows, newly restored; the king-sized
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