Something in Common

SOMETHING IN COMMON

 Look at him: a sorry excuse for a man. He’s a year older than me but he still dresses like a teenager. He hasn’t made any effort to look half-way respectable; by the looks of his hair he hasn’t even had a shower, and he stinks of smoke. 

They walk together up the gravel path to the front door of the house they had known as children, and only occasionally as adults at Christmas.

Look at her: Miss priggy. She’s a year younger than me but she dresses like an old lady; she’s all make-up and perfume, smells like a chemical laboratory. Her hairdo is ridiculous.

They reach the door, ring the bell and wait, both of them looking straight ahead.

I mean, what’s he done with his life? He sits about all day playing video games and smoking drugs; I don’t think he’s ever done more than a few weeks’ work in his life, but he’s been on benefits forever. He probably makes more off disability benefits than I do working full time, and nobody even knows what his disability is. Chronic laziness is the only thing he’s got. And he has the nerve to complain about cuts to his benefits. All he does is complain: the world is one big conspiracy against him. Take, take, take. He likes to go on about politicians this and that, killing the environment and all that, but he’ll never get off his fat arse to actually do something about it. Not a care in the world for him, but only ‘cause mugs like me pay our taxes so the likes of him can loaf about and moan all day about how unfair it all is. He hasn’t even got kids to worry about, not even a wife - only that funny mopey girl with the piercings who has panic attacks, and nobody knows whether they even sleep together. I blame my auntie and uncle Ray, they were too soft on him, he always got away with murder. Plus he never takes part in family get-togethers or comes to weddings - we aren’t cool enough for him, he was always better than the rest of us.

A dog barks and a call comes from somewhere in the house, followed by footsteps coming down the stairs.

What a waste of a life; she’s like a robot, a brainwashed consumer. Going off to work her boring office job every day so she can have her suburban shangri-la: house, car, husband, kids, holiday in some stupid tacky resort with all the other robots. There’s nothing you can talk to her about, she’s so fucking uptight. You have to take your shoes off in their house and you can’t sit on the fancy sofa; you can’t even smoke in the fucking garden. And her prick of a husband is a Tory, and probably a racist too. I bet he’s shagging their nanny. She looks down her nose at anyone she thinks is weird; she’s selfish and stuck-up. I blame my auntie and uncle Victor, they wouldn’t let her have any fun, that’s why she’s always been a right little Hitler. Plus, because she’s such a busybody she’s always organising family get-togethers and she goes to everyone’s wedding. Why would I want to hang out with a bunch of people I have nothing in common with just because they’re relatives?

A man opens the door while he holds back the barking labrador: “Good morning, nice to meet you. Come in.”  He and his two visitors exchange pleasantries as they walk through the house and into the back garden. “Well, here they are. I only found them a few days after we moved in, I hadn’t even looked in the shed. Your grandfather was obviously quite skilled at carving wood.”

They’re exquisite - just look at the detail. He must have spent months carving these; to think of all the love he put into them, and how they were nearly forgotten for good in the back of this shed. How lovely to have a memento of my grandad, he was a sweet man; I think it’s important to keep his memory alive. I used to love coming here when I was a girl.

They’re hideous - no one’s going to buy kitsch like that, it’s worthless. Fancy wasting all that time on something so crappy; grandad was such an old bore. I wish I hadn’t come now. I used to hate coming here when I was a boy.

The three walk back through the house to the front door, the visitors now carrying a carved object each, and chat for a moment in the doorway. “What do I do? I’m a footballer. I play for City, the training ground’s only two miles up the road… No, I’m not on Match of the Day yet; we’re in League One, the old third division… well I’ve just signed a three-year contract so yeah, mustn’t grumble.”

A footballer! Well, well. I should’ve guessed by the tattoos right up his neck. I bet the neighbours are thrilled, talk about lowering the tone. How is it right that a bloke like him in his mid-twenties can move into a beautiful house like this by kicking a ball around for a living? I bet he can hardly read and write. I went through college and fifteen years of work before I could afford a house. 

A footballer! That explains the sports car - I bet he’s a right little flash harry. Thick as shit too; he probably bullied someone like me at school. His missus is probably orange and his kid’s called Jayden. Imagine kicking a fucking ball around for a living.

The visitors say goodbye to the man and walk back down the gravel path to the front gate, exchanging a quick glance that they both understand to mean the same thing: for once we have something in common to disapprove of.