What I don’t really want to talk about for various reasons – it’s boring, it’s not important, it’s nobody’s business, and it’s a bit embarrassing really – are the twice yearly meetings with some lawyers which dad has selected for me.

Usually I go there, they put a bunch of papers in front of me, and I sign them and listen to their mumblings. Then I leave, and don’t have to think about it for another six or eight months until there are new permissions and waivers and such to sign.

This time I had to go in because there are some tax liabilities I will have to deal with. Or rather, they will have to deal with it under the ever scrutinising eye of my father. But they tried to explain what was going on, and I didn’t understand a word and nodded along until they said the magic words ‘property’ and ‘sell’ and ‘in London’.

My savings are not in cash, but in stocks and bonds and stuff. Each month dad takes some of the profits from that and puts it on my debit card. To allow him to continue to do so, because I’m funnily enough considered an adult now and all that stuff is in my name, I have to meet with these people. Today I learned that one of the assets is, apparently, a property in London which dad wants to sell off.

When I rang dad he said he didn’t like the market in London. He said it was too hot, and that it wasn’t healthy now, and wanted to put it into something safer for me. I had to stop him there and shout at him, because apparently I’ve had a house or flat – I don’t even know which it is! – in London and I haven’t known about it.

I could have lived there, gone to West End every night, and me and Mark could have looked out over the Thames and Big Ben when we looked out of the window, instead of seeing the neighbour’s fat arse when he’s up on a ladder fixing his house across the street.

Okay, I jest, but I’ve been keeping a low profile today. My savings have, as they sometimes do, popped out like the jack in the box and have said boo. It also means that instead of slowly eating up my savings over time until that point where I’m not this champagne socialist with a trust fund and a serious lack of credibility in my leftiness, the sale of this property is going to double what I have.

I’ll never be a part of the starving artist collective, will I?

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