Mum and Dad were both big readers, so the house was always stuffed full of books. Dad, who I suppose you could say was on a spiritual quest, favoured biographies and hefty volumes about philosophy or religion, while Mum was more into fiction and would plough her way through the Booker longlist every year, titles she would request at the local library.
For a while, in the nineties, Dad was a Buddhist – he even used to chant, which always gave Mum the giggles. But then his reading led him to Christian Science, then TM and deism and the rambling writings of Walt Whitman, and at that point the chanting stopped. In the end I think he slotted together everything he’d read – plumber-style – to build his own hybrid belief system. Whatever it was he came up with, it certainly worked for him: he was pretty much always smiling.
So yes, my childhood was good. I felt loved and cherished by two calm, centred people who clearly loved one another. And I grew up with a healthy attitude to life, specifically to the money and material issues that everyone else seems to struggle so much with.
Just occasionally I’d get jealous – what kid doesn’t? So, sure, a friend’s Raleigh racer would catch my eye, or the school bully’s All Star boots, and I’d wonder why I couldn’t have stuff like that. But then I’d go round to friends’ houses and hear the lifeless discussions about EastEnders; I’d see the empty bookcases, the lack of hi-fi (our Marantz was ancient but sounded amazing); I’d sit on their brand-new mock-leather sofa, bought on tick, and understand on a subconscious level – these thoughts were never actually words or phrases – that my parents were unusual, were special, and I was lucky to be growing up the way I was.
Mum died unexpectedly when she was fifty-two, and the shock of it almost killed Dad. He was older than her and a smoker and a drinker, whereas Mum was a healthy-eating, teetotal hillwalker. I don’t think any of us ever imagined that she might go first. But hearts are unpredictable, it would seem. No one can tell when a heart is going to stop.
For six months Dad barely left his bed, and I thought he’d decided to die. With effort, I even understood how logical willing his own death would be. They’d been everything to each other, after all. How could life without the other be imagined?
But then about nine months after the funeral he started reading again, and at the one-year anniversary he tidied the house. I can only assume that something in one of his books enabled him to make sense of it all.
We never spoke about what had changed, but one weekend I went to visit and there he was, looking spritely, painting walls. I have never felt so relieved.
The only person I ever met who raved about her parents as much as I do was Amy, but in the end that all turned out to be lies.
Perhaps I went overboard telling her about my own amazing parents, so she felt she needed to get competitive about it. She was always pretty driven about most things.
I met her at a yoga retreat, which might sound weird from a bloke like me. Yoga isn’t necessarily something that you expect a kitchen fitter to be doing, I guess.
But all that humping flat-pack kitchen units around – all the squeezing myself beneath countertops – was doing terrible things to my vertebrae, and one of Dad’s Buddhist mates suggested yoga might help.
As by then I was on painkillers 24/7, and because they were playing havoc with my guts, I was ready to try anything. I’d reached the end of the road with the local NHS; acupuncture hadn’t worked, and nor had my sessions with the osteopath. I’d recently split up with my girlfriend, Gemma, as well, so was at a loss to know what to do with my summer holiday. So I booked myself on to a yoga course down near Malaga. I’d combine beach, sunshine and fixing my back; or at least, that’s what I hoped.
Amy was the first person I spoke to. In fact, she greeted me as I walked up the dusty path from where the taxi had dropped me off. She had a great figure and perfect poise – she walked like a ballerina, if you know what I mean – and because she greeted me and led me to my room, I assumed that she was the organiser.
It wasn’t until next morning at breakfast that I understood she was just another punter. I was even more surprised when it dawned that she was chatting me up.
Now, I don’t have any kind of downer on myself – I don’t think I’m a monster or anything. But I knew I was no James Dean either, and Amy seemed out of my league from the start. I never quite got over my surprise that she wanted me in her bed. Then again, every person present: the other students, the teachers, the cooks and cleaners . . . every single one was female. So maybe, at the beginning, that’s all it was.
The yoga retreat turned out to be a great holiday, and though it didn’t provide an instant solution to my back problems, it did set me on a long road to recovery. By the end of my ten-day stay I was tanned, relaxed and, through eating their ultra-healthy vegan fare, I’d lost a few pounds as well.
On top of this – mega bonus – I came home from the trip with a new girlfriend. And not any old girlfriend, either: a witty, stunningly sexy, surprisingly bendy girlfriend. And that was totally unexpected.
Until the final morning, when she asked, ‘So can I come with you?’, I truly hadn’t believed that Amy was anything more than a holiday
