At the age of 70 I, a retired journalist, have gone into this venture with Sally-Mae Joseph, 65, a retired calligrapher and now an artist, whom I have known for five fun years, and Lyn Sands, 66, back from Spain where she lived alone for 12 years, our eco-warrior and vegetable-grower (don’t tell the kids, but I’ve only known her two years).
We all regard this as a forever move but accept that, as in a marriage, things we haven’t anticipated may go wrong. We were all agreed that probate for our children had to be paramount, and that no one would be made homeless because a share of the equity had been inherited. As a couple of our daughters touchingly and independently observed in a role-reversal of parent to stroppy teen: “We don’t know these people. Will your friends love you like we do?” [...]
We had no idea of moving in together until we went on a jaunt to look at a tired and emotional, seven-bedroom Edwardian pile. Could we – should we – move in and do it up? Perhaps not, but what if there were a perfect house, with a bathroom for each of us and a kitchen big enough to seat at least 10, with a large garden for Lyn’s veg, chickens for me and a studio for Sally-Mae? That very day we found it. Four large bedrooms, all en suite, so there’s room for our collective eight children and 12 grandchildren to stay. Maybe not all at once, or not yet, but when they have all got to know each other, who knows …
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