Across from the office window (office being a store room with a desk shoved up one end but it will do) are beautiful houses with gardens and electric gates. This flat, with its fluctuating state of disrepair in glorious sync with fluctuating market rates, may perhaps offer the exotic view of a humble life above a retail unit to those that look across from the other side. All I need is a desk and a window to look out of, somewhere to plonk down my elbows and my angst. Minimalism is for millionaires, the type who boast about owning two pairs of trousers. The same is true for me after I split the seams in the seat of my black jeans while leaping to rescue my toddler, the exhilaration of another well-executed Dad Save counterbalanced by the slapstick rip of my thin-seamed dignity. When you have little you want to hang onto everything. The minimalists can tip an ear to the rushing sound of nice things slipping in then out of their lives, like flicking a finger through catalogue pages as a child.

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