Domestic policy
Hunter Davies loves living alone in his huge empty nest
Defiantly not downsizing
So many of my dear friends and neighbours of a certain age and certain stage in their lives, have been downsizing recently.
They sell up their lovely, threestorey house, just like mine, in which they have lived all their married lives, just as I did. They move, usually only about three streets away and often to the next street, downsizing into a flat.
They chunter on about wanting to free up their capital to help their poor children get on the housing ladder – though I suspect it is to help their poor kiddos buy something bijou in Tuscany.
The real reason is that, by giving them money now, their estate will pay less inheritance tax; if they hang on for another seven years.
I love my house dearly. I love all the junk – I mean treasures – I have collected. I have about 20 different collections which include football books, postcards, first editions of newspapers, London Underground maps, the autographs of every prime minister since Walpole and thousands of Beatles items.
My wife moaned about the dust and vowed that, if I died first, it would all go to the dump. I hoped she only meant my treasures and not my body. She died first, unfortunately, four years ago.
So I have been in this house on my own these last four years, feeling guilty about all the wasted space. But recently I have acquired a lodger for my top floor, a young woman who is a nanny to a famous actor who lives locally.
Meanwhile, I live in the rest of the house. On the first floor is my bedroom, bathroom and office. On the ground floor is the dining room, kitchen and sitting room.
I am now 84, still fit and still chasing women, despite having had a triple heart bypass a year ago. But looking around the planet at all the elderly people who have gone before, the evidence is mounting. If you do live well into your 80’s, stairs can be a right bugger. Which reminds me of the old joke.
Old woman to old man: ‘Shall we go upstairs and make love?’
Old man: ‘I’m not sure I can manage both.’
So I have thought of a cunning plan. I have started to rearrange the house so that, in the years to come, I will do all of my living downstairs.
The first thing I did was add a shower to my downstairs lavatory.
The plumber said it was impossible, there was no room, and he would not be able to buy a shower that would fit the space.
‘Don’t be dopey,’ I said, ‘I want you to make the shower, make it fit; not buy a ready-made one.’
While I have to crouch to use it, I have noticed that we all get smaller with age. So, when I get to the stage when I use it full-time, I will hardy need to bend down.
I have earmarked part of the lounge as the future location of my ground-floor bedroom. When we bought the house in 1963, for the exorbitant price of £5,000, it was two separate rooms. We knocked it through – oh what creatures of fashion we are when it comes to ripping houses apart. When I need to, I will change it back, and restore the partition.
I already know where my office will be in those years to come: in my garage. After my wife died, I gave up the car. The empty garage became first a dump and then a play room for the grandchildren. Recently I have converted it into a proper garden room. It will serve nicely as my study in the future.
At the moment, I am using it as a corridor, walking through it to get into the mews, from where I go straight on to Hampstead Heath. It cost me £10,000 to convert it. So it is rather an expensive corridor – but it will prove invaluable.
This week, I have just completed the final element in my downstairs fantasy-living quarters. I have created a really fab, designer summerhouse which leads out of my dining room into the garden.
Technically, it is not attached to the house, as I would have needed planning permission. But I have double sliding doors – so I can go straight in.
It is so artistic and beautiful – hand-crafted, with a sort of domed, leaded roof. It too cost a fortune, which I am keeping quiet – OK it came to three times what I paid for the whole house. Mad, I know. But better than letting the kiddos have the money.
I will have my plants there, such as my bougainvillea. In the summer, I will sleep there, looking out at the birds and the bees, the many trees and flowers.
Meanwhile, the two floors above me will house carers, looking after my every whim and need, and lodgers, providing income.
All I need to do now is keep on living. If I don’t get to 90, I will demand all my money back.