It was with great sadness that I said farewell to my oldest son as he recently moved out to live with his girlfriend/fiancée. Friends consoled me by stating that he’ll be back and actually the family will get bigger not smaller when they return with gobs of squabs of their own. That may be so but right now we are a man down. My sons and I like the same music, same TV shows and have a similar sense of humour. Neymar Jrs. Back, we sometimes even play in the same five-a-side team (I get the feeling I’m picked to make up the numbers. I’m only told there‘s a game on at the last minute).
So he’s gone and there’s space. Space. There’s a spare room.
A blank canvas.
A bald palette.
An unwritten piece of paper
A graffiti-less playground.
A bare of walls.
An unembellished room sitting like a reject from Homes under the Hammer.
While I was imagining the wild worlds I was going to create inside this virgin desert- pool table, book shelves for pulp reading material, a mini-bar, no, a maxi-bar, easy chairs with pouffes – my wife tapped me on the shoulder.
“All it needs is a fresh coat of paint. We’ll keep it as a spare bedroom.”
And then the junior Neymar came back and hit me with a bombshell. No, no, before you jump to conclusions, I’m not going to be a granddad it was something else. His new house is needing decorated and he asked for my help. Happy to do this as then we’re together again. In a week or three when we can synchronise times we’ll bash into it. In the meantime I got another bombshell, this time from my wife. No, don’t even think about it, I’m not going to be changing nappies or anything like that. It was something else.
“My mother is coming to visit. She can stay in the spare room for a few days.”
There goes the neighbourhood.