Sense of community
Nor is my son particularly enthusiastic about how, when we’re out in our neighbourhood, I almost always stop and chat to people. Having lived here 20 years, I know a lot of faces.
These brief encounters – with the man always out with his dog, who describes his joy at becoming a grandfather, or with the owner of a local restaurant who proudly shares how, at 81, he’s still working full time – never fail to lift my spirits.
Should we move, I could, of course, recreate these connections. But they take time to build. And what about all the families we’ve met since becoming parents? From the nursery, school, and the playground. Relationships which my son, in particular, benefits from.
“I can’t believe Annabel and Mark are still living like students,” a rather opinionated friend of my mother’s said to her recently. Hardly the case.
However, her comment is in keeping with the rather British notion that a house is what you should graduate to once you’re grown up and offers the most respectable setting for a successful family life. Unlike European cities such as Paris and Berlin, where the majority of families live in apartments, and some even rent for life.
I’m sticking with the Europeans on this. From my desk, I can see Lego scattered across the dining table and the rack of drying laundry framing the bay window. But there’s also south light streaming in and a view of my neighbour’s wild garden.
And just a few thousand steps away lies the city centre, with its grandeur and grit and hidden passageways and noodle bars and cafés and ample opportunities for people-watching. All of which makes me happy.
As does my home, even though some people seem to find that hard to believe.
