Thirteen was looming

THIRTEEN was looming like a big hag, long bony fingers beckoned beyond the midnight Twelve, so bad was its reputation that the entire car industry colluded to pretend it didn’t exist. No matter how many people said it had to be better than the swift Twelve, it wasn’t looking great, they said the same in glib Ten and long Eleven – remember? It seemed that the only way to face this number down was with dramatic, if uncomfortable, change.

It finally looked like the threat I wielded at my great big sons was coming to pass, if they didn’t keep their rooms vaguely fit for human habitation, I was going to rent them out (the rooms, that is, not much of a market for lads) and get good money at that. ‘Hah, sure,’ they’d smirk as they’d kick another pair of boxers and mismatched holey socks under the bed.

No, this time serious action was called for, not I might add, entirely due to Cost Centres#1 and #2[1] errant approach to household management. Banks new SME austerity policy and a minor issue of mortgage repayments were a consideration. What with the poor timing of the recession and all, my construction-related profession was no longer the much sought after consultancy it once was.

In the previous two years I was getting used to the bus instead of taxis, hardly ever going out (or so it seems), wearing four layers instead of putting the heating on during the day and writing my first novel (note, not yet published), I was running out of recession-proof solutions.

Many friends had resorted to taking in students and even long term lodgers, I just didn’t think I had the ability to live with a complete stranger under my roof, or worse, toss a coin for which son would forfeit his room for the linen cupboard and bear the lifelong disgruntlement. Plus the house was a mess of clutter. As Christmas drew near I thought about the idea more, the box room was full of winter clothes, that never get put away (we’re not called the land of winter for nothing) and we had an attic conversion, that looked crisply Gustavian on its first day, all bleached pine panelling and minimal chic, but quickly morphed into a man-crib.

I offered this solution to the boys, that if we were going to do it we might as well rent both of their rooms, best to spread the pain. The elder finance and marketing student, having been volubly resistant to moving into the arctic attic den suddenly saw the benefits of a tv, sofa, sound system and bed all in one big, draughty space. That left the economics student in the linen cupboard, forfeiting his en-suite if you don’t mind. ‘It’s to save our house’ I said, quietly. We imagined who we might live with, male or female? one of each? being used to sons and brothers I was inclined to think men might be easier, the boys agreed, not that they’d be cleaner, just a bit easier, for which, read: out most of the time. On the other hand, female company could be great for a change, balancing the house. We would wait and see.



[1] I admit Mrs Moneypenny got there first, whom I was delighted to see unveiled on University Challenge as Helen McGregor and very good she was too.