Paradise City, my new home, is not actually a city, and I have been regaling anyone who will listen with this fact (about five people then. You are number six, internet) ever since I discovered it, which wasn’t really until just before I arrived. It seems that when the town was being built – really quite recently – rather than provide the amenities which are commonly considered part of the criteria of city status (say, an airport, a university, or even a highstreet), this whole irksome set of criteria could be circumnavigated by just putting “City” in the town’s name, thus misleading the likes of me. It is, I suppose, akin to christening your son Sir Daniel from the get go, hence removing any pressure to strive for greatness.
I have heard it said that when the Paradise City’s designer set out his town, he decreed that each house should have its own apple tree. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but my garden certainly has one, and it is currently weighed down by a score of near ripe fruit. And not measly crab apples or something. No, these are large tennis ball-sized – or, if you prefer, apple-sized – apples. If I liked apples, it would be brilliant.
As I type, the purr of Cub the cat rumbles behind me. Cub is old, very calm and a little infirm, and since I had to feed him for a week while his family were away we are pretty good mates. It’s raining tonight, and a tired looking Cub asked to come in. He refused the use of my bed though, instead preferring to curl up in a suitcase.
And so, here I am. I have my house; I finally have a car again after years of going without; something resembling the start of a career; a garden full of apples; and my room resonates with the deeply pleasing acoustics of a cat’s purr.
5 weeks ago