7th July: A ride with Posh Boy



            I’m supposed to be out of this house by four o’clock, so when a lovely, young friend, Posh Boy, asks me if I need any help I say yes, yes, oh god, yes (because I’m still on heat after yesterday’s recollection).  His godfather is a Conservative Party peer and he’s a born-again Christian, saving the losing of his virginity for his marriage.  Never has there been a more incongruous couple as we dismantle a bed together and make jolly innuendo-filled comments and it’s all over far too quickly.  Just like his wedding night will be.  How can I prolong his life-enriching presence? 
            “Would you like a ride in Lauren to the Beaumont Leys Parcel Depot?”
            “Gen, I’m awfully sorry, but I only understand the word ‘parcel’ in those last four words.” I explain the concept and existence of a working-class housing estate and its adjacent industrial units providing much needed local employment.  He’s familiar with another form of estate, telling me of his family friends at Chatsworth and Longleat, and he’s travelled in Daimlers but he’s never enjoyed a van.  He’s terribly excited.  For a few minutes we are a white van couple, shaking the foundations of society like Bonny and Clyde as we jump an amber light, not armed with machine guns but with broadsheets, me with my Guardian and him with his Telegraph. En route to the parcel depot I tell him about the man who ‘gave me the bird’ last week. “He flipped you off.  He thought you were a gypsy.”   Aha, ethnically abused for the first time in my life aged fifty-one.  As for the parcel, it’s two hundred cards I’ve had printed and hope to sell. They come with cellophane and envelopes so assembling them will keep me from chatting up twenty-year-olds for an evening.

            In an hour the estate agent should be checking that I’ve pruned the bushes, defrosted the freezer and vacuumed away my existence.  At four the house is still a wreck so I phone to say that I won’t be done until around seven.  Yet again, delusion rules.  I check with my landlady, just two doors away, if she’s okay if I stay one more night if I’m gone by dawn.  She’s fine with this.  I sort, clear and fill more bags for the charity shop and will squeeze in four hours sleep. 

There is still so much to clear, pack and clean.

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