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Christmas Eve. Last day of work before the big day; two days off, more than usual. Last Christmas was one day of horrible fatigue and I fell asleep for an hour and a half in the late afternoon, then woke up for dinner, then had to go to bed early to wake up at 630 on Boxing Day for work. Two days this year; pleasant. (First world problems).

 

Got home from work today, had a shower and joined mom and grandpa to watch Alastair Sim’s Christmas Carol and then Willy Wonka and then Ed Sullivan. Had a glass of Grandpa’s plonk wine with a light dinner, and then cookies.

 

I did say I would write more today, but what is there to write about? I worked, and then that. Not much else.

 

I put on music once alone and then thought of the outline of the epic fantasy story I may never live to write out. One day, I promise. It’s a wonderful story that will probably never live up to what it is in my head. It’s a comfort to me where it is, and I might ruin it.

 

Work was wall to wall chaos. Nothing in order on the shelves. Two people asking me a question at a time. Sometimes three people. I had to juggle them. I was product consultant, so I got to wear a nice shirt and be impressive. There was one guy at the tasting bar who told me he was there all the time and had never seen me before. Well, I’m there five days a week--but who would notice me without the shirt? The dress shirt means I must be somebody, so they pay attention. They take my advice seriously; they stop to chat. You really notice the difference, when you’re sometimes with and sometimes without.

 

I said I’d write more about my living situation. I live in the basement of the house I grew up in, with my mom and grandpa. I used to live on my own in Montreal, years ago, when I lived in that city that was much cheaper than the one I was born and raised in. Vancouver is expensive—I think of moving out now and then, but that move always loses and pro/con test.

 

I insist on paying rent. I pay what I used to pay for an apartment in Montreal. They could charge more than twice as much for this. I am aware I am lucky to have this situation. So many people I know are in situations significantly more miserable. And I am grateful for the little island of stability I inhabit.

 

This is a 110-year-old former farmhouse on the western edge of the city, blocks before it gives away to the forest of the University Endowment Lands. There used to be a secret passage under here—you used to be able to see the trapdoor in the floor, when I was very small, before we got new floor. A former owner had built it into the forest, which used to be even closer, to be able to escape the Japanese in case they invaded. That’s gone, but there’s still strange doors and windows that lead to nowhere. Nooks that used to be fireplaces but which are now only purposeless nooks. Piles of objects. Cobwebs everywhere. Endless rows of books.

 

The trees are beautiful. The views of the mountains are beautiful. We can only afford to be anywhere near here because my grandparents bought the house in 1970 before it became an unapproachable luxury district. There’s still a few other aging holdouts. The neighbourhood itself has slowly died over the course of my own life: one block of shops disappearing, then another.

 

This house is home. I grew up here. My mom grew up here. It swelters in the summer and freezes in the winter. It is decaying around us, and I am occasionally intensely aware that it’s a tear-down that will cease to exist shortly after we’ve moved out of it.