Gentrification by Stealth

          For the past couple of weeks, we’ve had day after day of unbroken sunshine. Summer is here and it’s prompted a few adjustments to daily routines – jumpers put away, shorts and sandals put out, that kind of thing – though I do remember that, in my youth, seasonal clothing was not something I gave thought to; what mattered above all was wearing my Afghan coat, come rain or shine. But that juvenile non-conformity waned around the age of twenty-five or so, when the transition from semi-hippiedom to the beginnings of a grown-up career began to take place. I was experiencing a form of creeping ‘gentrification’, like what happens to neighbourhoods. Life became more expensive, in direct proportion to the accretion of the trappings of the middle-class lifestyle. Then I had to earn more money just to fuel the escalating process. The moment of final capitulation – although I didn’t recognise it as such at the time – was the acquisition of a mortgage, which put an end to what I had once cherished, freedom from responsibilities.

          That sense of freedom made its eventual joyful comeback on the day the mortgage was discharged and, though too wrinkly by then to take full advantage, I have since attempted to live the dream in small but gratifyingly significant ways, like travelling light through life with a diminished appetite for possessions and a keener hunger for experiences (of a particular kind, that is). Nevertheless, the advent of summer having brought our balcony back into use, a review of its furnishings highlighted a need to acquire another table and a couple of chairs. The ones we had didn’t properly fit the space or adequately serve their purpose so, being of good quality and almost unused, we decided to try to sell them and use the proceeds to fund replacements, preferably second-hand in the interest of saving the planet. Gumtree came good with a willing buyer almost straight away (a fact that I attributed mainly to the presentation skills I learned during my brief career in London’s advertising industry). The buyer paid cash on collection, thereby presenting me with a wad of notes such as I have not seen for a few years and which reminded me of deals done in my youth. It also posed a minor problem, as I had to remember to put the notes in my pocket and use them instead of my phone to pay for stuff. Most of the cash remains in a drawer.

          Meanwhile, I was persuaded to lend a hand to our local group of climate activists (half a dozen female pensioners and a couple of middle-aged men: where are all the angry youngsters? Busy acquiring mortgages?) intent on displaying banners proclaiming the “climate emergency” on a footbridge over the A38 expressway to and from Cornwall. This being the start of a holiday, it was calculated to get the attention of thousands of vacationers, which it did, though judging by some of the gestures they made as they sped by, not everyone appreciated the reminder: I suppose the gravity of the message might have cast a shadow over their expectations of a carefree holiday. On the other hand, there were plenty of enthusiastic thumbs-up signals – whether for the activists or, perversely, in favour of a climate emergency, I could not be certain.

          As to the replacement furniture for the balcony, I am a little shamed by the fact that, despite the depleted state of the biosphere, we resorted to buying newly made stuff. I did try to find a suitable pre-owned set online but ran out of steam and opted in the end for a low-priced-next-day-free-delivery-perfectly-appropriate product. I had, originally, put my hope in Tommy’s junk store, our local Al Adin’s cave of curiosities and bargains, but Tommy has retired from the business and the shop has been converted into an arty café – an ominous symptom of the onset of neighbourhood gentrification.