including where one could purchase such an item and how many journeys one needed to take in order to break even or, indeed, to effectively travel for free.
He did not seem particularly interested, and didn’t even thank me when I’d finished. He is a spectacularly unsophisticated conversationalist.
We walked through a small estate of square white homes; there were four different house designs interspersed in a predictable pattern.
Each had a newish car in the driveway, and evidence of children—small bicycles with stabilizers, a basketball hoop fixed to the garage wall—
but there was neither sight nor sound of any. The streets were all named after poets—
Wordsworth Lane, Shelley Close, Keats Rise—no doubt chosen by the building company’s Marketing Department.
They were all poets that the kind of person who’d aspire to such a home would recognize, poets who wrote about urns and flowers and wandering clouds.
Based on past experience, I’d be more likely to end up living in Dante Lane or Poe Crescent.
I was very familiar with such environs, having lived in several virtually identical houses in virtually identical streets during foster placements.
There would be no pensioners here, no friends sharing a house and no one living alone, save for the occasional transitory divorcé.
Newish cars lined up in driveways, two per house, ideally. Families came and went, and the whole place felt temporary, somehow,
like theatrical scenery that had been hastily assembled and could be shifted at any time. I shuddered, chasing away the memories.
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