I recently stayed in my mother’s house while she was away. A small 1970s bungalow with large dark furniture squeezed in like a dollshouse that has the interior scale wrong.
The three part Parisian wardrobe with cherry wood inlay is in my mothers will for me. I thought I could live in it under a tunnel if I am ever homeless.
The shower has handrails and a seat for my stepfather; he lost his leg in a Lancaster in the war.
I couldn’t have sex in the bed. The dreams I had were my mothers dreams being desperate for a wee, finally finding a loo and then realising the walls are see-through and the loo is on a dais on a building site manned by hundreds of construction workers.
I wonder if Alex dreamt of POWs. He didn’t remember.
