23. A Tall Cold House In London
Home to the tall, cold house in London, my ruptured disc and I, this place of my childhood where Hollywood stars lit cigarettes with survivors of Russian oppression, where refugees and royalty passed each other on the stairs. Or used to. As a child, my father’s friends and my mother’s politics built a world of artists and argument. My father was Scottish aristocracy, a Tory-voting, Maggie-loving, patron of the arts. My mother was a member of the Labour Party who liked to pretend to be in touch with the real world while keeping a horse in the country. Why they married is a mystery I’ve lately…
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