I have never much thought about inheritance: as a poor family, there was barely enough to go around all five of us, let alone anything left over. Things change, of course, and I don’t think I can even call myself working class anymore (and I am disappointed about that, because I work very hard).
My parents are now the proud owners of a lovely house in Scotland, which is absolutely the stuff of my dreams. I’m really proud of them for getting into a position where they could purchase the house (though some factors, like having a mortgage, remain unresolved), and I’m astonished by their good taste and good luck.
The house is something I look forward to: both in a short term when-will-I-next-be-there sort of way, and in a long term I-could-live-there(-when-I’m-old) sort of way. In a funny way, it makes me look forward to growing old, and settling down, because living in such a place seems to be the end to a hard life’s labour. Then again, I keep feeding these fanciful notions that perhaps I could earn a living from writing, and perhaps I could spent time in the Doctors House as a writer’s retreat. The only thing that dampens my enthusiasm is that I’m not sure this is a legitimate reason for wanting to write for a living. Happily, I’ve wanted to write for a living for some time, on its own merit, but I’ve a long way to go before I figure out how.