I always assumed I would end up
caring for my mother when my father died. My sister is married; I am not. But
it’s plain that my mother is not to be attended by a male in her dotage, when
her private functions become acts of public mercy.
My sister wants my parents to
quit their Berwick unit and move closer to Hampton where she and husband Tom
occupy a bungalow worth about $1.4 million. My father loves moving house, but
in this case he’s going nowhere. My sister has lived in Berwick and will never
go back. Tom will never sell Hampton and is staying put there.
Until today.
They inspected a house for sale
in Emerald. And made an offer of $780k. It’s been rejected. The owners want
$830k. Miserly Tom is all for coughing up what they want. It’s all about
architecture.
Tom lectures in architecture.
This place was built in the 1930s and it is stunning; not real estate stunning,
but really stunning.
My sister owns a lovely art
deco apartment in Caulfield, her investment and security after living with a
profligate first husband who twice went bust out of greed and stupidity. It’s
worth more than half a million. And Tom owns his late mother’s terrace in
Albert Park which is worth a squillion.
Interior design and decoration
is what my sister loves. It’s how she met Tom. Together they have renovated all
three places. They’ve worked their arses off. Good luck to them.
Meanwhile I sit in my
deteriorating cottage without a zack, restumping, rewiring, plastering,
painting and plumbing staring at me. Sometimes I stare back and think “what the
hell”. It doesn’t leak too much. The ancient don’t-touch-it-or-it’ll-fuck-up
heater goes OK. The discoloured walls have a certain charm. There’s some art
deco sort-of leadlight in the front door.
The JRT is at home here.
I haven’t got much and I haven’t
worked hard to get it. Who needs stunning?
Rock on.
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