home – Nick Grant

Nick Grant

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  • Nest-Making

    This is a story about impatience…

    Chaise longue

    I’ve committed the cardinal sin of spending a substantial sum of money that I haven’t earned yet. Compounding my error is the fact that I have been dreadfully unwell for the last week, and was not able to work. I’ve quickly moved myself from a precarious position – living in hotels – to one that appears to have more certainty about it. It would take considerable effort to eject me and my belongings, now that I have arrived, and I’ve got a load of furniture now too. However, I now find myself in the position which I tried to work very hard to avoid: Worrying about job security.

    I’m not really that worried.

    I waited a long time for my home and my income to come back into alignment. I suffered too many nights lived out of a suitcase. I suffered too many different hotel rooms, bed & breakfasts, AirBnBs and other ad-hoc sleeping arrangements. My favourite clothes were either on my body or in my luggage – never put away in a chest-of-drawers.

    Of course, this isn’t a self-pity piece. I just watched a feature-length documentary, eating popcorn, reclining on a brand new sofa, under a fluffy blanket and warmed by a log fire. My life is good.

    At least, I presume my life is good.

    The enormous pressure had broken me a week ago. I was losing my mind. I gambled with my professional reputation: I’m known for being ever-present, always available when somebody needs a question answered. Getting sick was not just unfortunate, but almost definitely an act of self-sabotage.

    I had my ducks so nicely lined up, that I could only see two outcomes: I would get everything I wanted, or disaster would strike and I’d lose it all. Easier to prompt the latter outcome into existence, than to sit and patiently wait for things to be OK.

    The intensity of what I had planned for a 4-day period was ferocious, and intended to limit my loss of earnings due to domestic errands in the course of house moving. What actually happened was that I put so much pressure on myself that I lost my mind, and began to do things which could have become a cascading, escalating, spiralling catastrophe.

    My body ‘let me down’ in a way that it has often done, where my muscles start to disintegrate and my kidneys are damaged. My urine turns dark brown and it becomes very clear from the sight and smell that I’m beginning to have a medical emergency.

    The sensible thing would have been to defer all my plans and go into hospital, but perversely, I decided that I would carry on until complete renal failure. Perversely, it was precisely this outcome – the beginning of the end – that I had superstitiously predicted, but had also prompted into existence.

    To the untrained eye it looks as if I’m enjoying a very exciting life of travel and adventure, and my skills are in demand all over the world, but in reality I’m always skating on very thin ice indeed.

    It is not advisable to move house, go to new cities, change jobs and have such an unsettled life, without any anchor. Given my estrangement from my family and move away from Dorset, Bournemouth and London, I’ve found myself in places where I’ve felt like there’s nobody I could phone if I was having a crisis. I’m too distant from everyone who’s ever really known me and cared about me. I’ve become a strange hermit-like reclusive creature, who’s always accessible to anybody and everybody, but I’ve been too loosely anchored to have any meaningful relationship with.

    Of the two friends I saw the most of last year, one lives in idyllic domestic bliss with his beautiful family – a very firmly anchored man – while the other one is dead: A man who found himself very alone and very far from the vast majority of people who knew him and cared about him.

    I must be careful that I now proceed to live my life with the anchor of a city I call home, a house, relationships and things of some permanence, because I can see that all-too-easily I could wind up dead, like my friend. I’ve made some difficult decisions which make me far less resilient to life’s unexpected changes – far less adaptable – but I’m going to make my 4th attempt at building the life I want.

    I once had a beautiful girlfriend who was devoted and loyal and everything I ever wanted, and we both had riverside apartments, not far from each other, but on opposite banks of the Thames. There’s a foot tunnel which was by far the quickest route between our two amazing homes. All I needed was a job. I got the job I needed, but the patience of waiting for it had somehow damaged me… I self-sabotaged and ended up with kidney failure, spending a long time on dialysis in a high-dependency hospital ward. Still, this was not enough to destroy my life. I kept going down the path which led only to catastrophe, until I got what I wanted: I lost it all.

    Regrettable, but nothing can be salvaged except for the lesson learned: That if I really try hard enough, then I can screw up nearly but not quite all my opportunities in life.

    The intervening 20+ months have been the harshest part of the lesson, because never once have I been so close to having what I had then. The hardest part has been when I’ve had clear sight of the route I need to take. When, at least on paper, I’ve had my future all mapped out and all I have to do is stick to the plan, that’s been indescribably awful. It’s been such a horrible waiting game.

    If your only goal in life is to get things back to at least as good as they once were, it’s a pretty miserable state of existence.

    I’m not such a fool that I’d attempt any like-for-like replacement of my old life, and I’m also wary of romanticising the past too. Some might say that I tried – and failed – for too long in London, because I had such good memories, from when I first started my career. Friends would tell me that London is too much hard work – too expensive, too busy, too overcrowded and too fast-paced and competitive for anybody but a fit young person.

    When my washing machine failed to be delivered today and I had no clean linen for the bed, I got in my car and drove through the city centre, bought what I needed and drove home. In London, such a thing would have been an ordeal, and nobody in their right mind would have attempted to drive through the city centre during rush hour. Of course, I know how to adapt to London – you live your life very differently there – but there is a great sense of relief that things are just easier out here in the provinces. Like, I find nothing very taxing or frustrating, because London is my benchmark. I spend a lot of time marvelling at how very civilised existence can be. All of the very many conveniences available only to London’s mega-rich, are at my disposal here in this city, which is but 2 hours train ride away from the Big Smoke.

    I felt a huge sense of calm and contentedness descend upon me, as soon as my bed was properly made and I knew I could snuggle under the duvet whenever I felt I wanted or needed to. I can’t believe that it’s only Saturday, and my lounge and bedroom both feel like they’re my home and I belong here. In fact, I often get the sense that I’m not too far away from declaring my life to be as good as it once was.

    I’ll be going back to work with some trepidation and it will take me a while to feel as though I’ve undone any damage caused by my self-sabotage. I’ll need to get a few more cheques in the bank before I start to relax and let my guard down – to allow myself to think of this life as ‘mine’.

    I wonder if people think that I demand the impossible and am ungrateful for what I have. I know I’ve done a lot of moaning and complaining about the discomfort and unpleasantness of living out of a suitcase, and perhaps with retrospect that seems very impatient of me, given that I must surely have known that my efforts woud bear fruit.

    Is it very bad of me, that I walk around my beautiful home and I think “this is befitting of the effort expended and the struggle”… almost like I deserve this, which I know sounds despicable. There is no justice in the world, but I still want you to know that I’m sitting here thinking “this worked out the way I wanted it to”.

    There’s still a scary time ahead, while I cement my victory in place, so it can never be unseated, but every day when disaster doesn’t strike is another day I can look back on with incredible gratitude, just like I can do for all those days I was in love by the riverside. No regrets.

     

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  • I’m a Lucky Guy

    This is a story about a charmed existence…

    Lounge

    Despite much whinging and complaining about the anxiety being caused by house-hunting and the difficulty of getting through all the vetting procedures, credit checks, references and suchlike, I have managed to secure myself a lovely big house to live in.

    The house is unfurnished.

    This isn’t even my furniture.

    I stole the photograph from the rental agent’s website.

    However.

    Wherever I go in the world, I have friends. Even though I hardly know anybody in the city where I currently live, or the city where I’m moving to, or the city where I work, I will always have friends. Why? Because I have so many people who care about me in the world. I’m such a lucky guy that my lovely global friends write to me, leave me lovely comments on my blog, or even just leave a little ‘heart’ on something I’ve written.

    I know that some people might feel like social media, blogging and the internet in general is a virtual reality. In their mind’s eye, the internet is populated with shy introverts, who never speak to each other and never make meaningful lifelong friendships. They’re wrong.

    A huge percentage – the vast majority – of my friendships began online, and then progressed to meeting in person and staying in touch regularly. My best friends and those who’ve been there for me through thick and thin, in times of darkness and in times of light… those friends almost all originated from the internet.

    Whether those friendships were made via dial-up internet bulletin boards (BBS), discussion forums, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or whatever social media is presently popular, is a complete irrelevance. Whether or not those friendships were first initiated using the communication medium of the internet, as opposed to a chance face-to-face meeting, is irrelevant.

    I started making a list of all the people who’ve given me significant support during some very difficult years of my life, and the more I kept digging though the archives of the internet, the more amazed I was at how many names there were on the list.

    I started trying to mention some of those people on Twitter, to thank them for being such great friends. As I sent out the Tweets I’d keep realising that there was somebody who’d perhaps gone quiet for a little while, and I hadn’t been in touch with recently. Everybody I mentioned has been a hugely supportive, kind and caring friend.

    I started to realise it was almost impossible for me catalogue and give thanks to everybody. How can I rank the contribution of my friends, to improving – and in some cases saving – my life? How can I even begin to comprehend just how many people I’ve been lucky enough to connect with, in a meaningful way, such that we could talk just like we’d known each other our whole lives?

    How can I be sure I didn’t miss anybody? For sure, I have more friends than my brain can cope with, which is an amazingly nice situation to be in.

    The internet is an incredible thing, but it’s the aggregate value of all those wonderful people that makes it so amazing. The global reach of the internet means I have friends on every continent. It feels like wherever I go in the world, I’ll always have a friend.

    I’m moving to a city I’ve never lived in before. I don’t really have any friends there. I don’t know my way around.

    That’s scary.

    But, wherever I go, I have my connection to an entire world of wonderful friends, who will support me along the way. Sure, some of them live too far away to help me unload my moving truck and unpack my boxes. Sure, some of them live so far away that they’re unlikely to be able to drop in for a housewarming party. However, it’s an immense comfort, especially during unsettling and stressful times, to have the wonderful luck of having so many friends in the world.

    I’m not sure why I put up that picture of a house which doesn’t even contain any furniture.

    I’m not sure if I’m insecure, and I want you to see that I’m at least going to be living somewhere nice, once I’ve bought some furniture and moved in.

    I also wanted to share that picture, because you’re all moving in there with me, because you move everywhere with me. You moved from London to Manchester with me, you moved from Manchester to Swansea with me, you moved from Swansea to Newport with me and now you’re moving from Newport to Cardiff with me. You were with me when I was in all those new cities. You were with me when I was living all on my own in that hotel room, out of a suitcase, for so many months.

    I’m lucky to have so many friends who go with me wherever I go. I’m lucky to have friends in every time zone, so I can speak to somebody at any hour of the day. I’m lucky to have turned so-called ‘virtual’ friendships into lifelong friendships, where we speak regularly on the phone, and we are intimately involved in each other’s lives.

    I’m grateful. Without your help, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Without your help I’d have died in Manchester. Without your help, I’d have been too anxious and depressed to get through the difficult things I’ve been through: To move to strange new cities, start new jobs and find new places to live. Without your help, all those lonely nights living out of a suitcase in a hotel would have been unbearable.

    Thank you, my far-flung friends.

     

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  • Invasion of Privacy

    This is a story about the trust paradox…

    Keys

    If you decide to permit personal privacy, then you must also accept that there will be a point at which you simply have to trust somebody. There is nobody who can say without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not keeping any terrible secret(s) and there is nobody who can predict the future. Even with perfect knowledge of the position every atom in the observable universe, there is no machine capable of predicting the future. Even with vast amounts of data collected about a person’s past behaviour, it’s not capable of making an accurate prediction about their future behaviour, without prejudicing those who are unfairly punished by whatever guesstimation algorithm is used.

    There’s a joke I used to enjoy which goes like this: If you have some goldfish, you probably have a pond. If you have a pond, you probably have a garden. If you have a garden, you probably have a house. If you have a house, you probably have a family. If you have a family, you probably fuck your wife. Therefore, if you don’t have any goldfish, you’re probably a wanker.

    This is the problem with making predictions from incomplete data. Even with nearly complete data, we’re still not very good at making predictions. Weather forecasts are pretty accurate for a few days into the future, but hopelessly inaccurate beyond a week or longer, except to say that summers are hot and winters are cold (or vice-versa for the Southern Hemisphere).

    I wrote this earlier, to express my frustration regarding renting a house. It’s a questions-and-answers thing I had to endure, in order to satisfy a landlord that I’m able to pay rent each month.

    Q: What’s your employment status?

    A: Full-time employment

     

    Q: What’s your salary?

    A: £8,424

     

    Q: Who can we contact at your company to verify your employment?

    A: The board of directors, or better still, why not just check at Companies House, because it’s a matter of public record

     

    Q: Can we see 3 months of payslips to prove your income?

    A: My £702 monthly salary? Yeah sure. No problem.

     

    Q: Are you self-employed?

    A: No. See above.

     

    Q: Are you sure you’re not self employed?

    A: I’m sure that I’m employed full-time as a company director, for which I receive a salary. I’m also a shareholder, which entitles me to a share of any dividends that the board of directors decides to pay. It’s exactly the same as being the CEO of a public company, except the shareholders cannot trade their shares via the stock market.

     

    Q: If you’re like a CEO why do you need to rent a house?

    A: Have you ever heard of a startup? It’s a bit like that, only without the rich parents.

     

    Q: So you don’t have any money?

    A: No, you’re getting me confused with startup founders. I have enough income to pay my rent.

     

    Q: Where does the money come from if you don’t earn it as a salary?

    A: Dividends are paid to me from the companies which I’m a shareholder of.

     

    Q: How much do you get paid per month, in dividends?

    A: It depends on the company profits, and what the board of directors decide. It could be zero. It could be zero for months.

     

    Q: This is too complicated for me to understand. Would you mind if we took a look at all of your personal bank accounts, for the last 3 years?

    A: No problem. Would you also like to perform a rectal exam and fondle my testicles too?

    So, despite the fact that my position as company director is a matter of public record, as well as the accounts of my company – anybody who wants to is able to view those records online – I’m still expected to share my personal bank statements with complete strangers.

    A friend and I who both own and operate our own companies, joked that we should maintain an account specifically for the purposes of pranking the organisations who ask to invade our privacy. We would make regular purchases of items from retailers and service providers, where the name shown on the bank statements would be considerably embarrassing, for most members of the public. Thus, we could troll these organisations and perhaps change the culture from secrecy and shame, to something more open. I applaud the Swedes, for example, for making every citizen’s tax declarations public… essentially meaning that you can find out how much anybody earns.

    As regular readers will know, I’m quite the opposite of a secret-keeper. I’ve published every bit of ‘dirt’ which somebody hope to ‘dig’ on me, onto this public website.

    Meanwhile, my hopes of renting a place to live hang in the balance, while the minutiae of how I spend every single penny are pored over by a bunch of strangers, who will ultimately decide whether I’m worthy of having a roof over my head, or whether I should be cast onto the streets.

     

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  • I Want To Have Nice Things

    This is a story about losing your home…

    Tackley cottage

    That little blonde boy in the pedal car is me. That thatched cottage is where I used to live, briefly. I loved that thatched cottage, because it was exactly what a house is supposed to be: It had a roof, chimney, windows with panes of glass criss-crossed, a front door in the middle, flowers growing in the garden. All it needed was a blue sky, some smoke coming out of the chimney, a couple of soaring birds, some white fluffy clouds and a big yellow sun with a smiling face, and it would be the picture that every child would draw, if you asked them to draw a picture of a house.

    My time in the “proper house” was very limited.

    When I briefly lived this proper life, there was a village green, a village shop, a village post office, a church and graveyard, a railway train station, a bus stop, a pub and a school.

    During my all-too-brief proper life, I went to the local school, played with the local children, bought sweets from the village shop, attended events on the village green – when people would literally dance around a maypole with coloured ribbons – and went to church.

    My life exemplified everything that is great and good about English countryside living. Former British Prime Minister, David Cameron, lives barely a few miles away from the idyllic Cotswold village where I had my proper life. Prince Charles and other royalty play polo on fields, barely a few miles away from this most quintessentially picturesque English village that you could ever imagine. The TV show Downton Abbey was filmed on location, a few miles away from this beautiful place, where I thought I would live forever.

    Life seemed to make sense to me – this was a proper life, and it all made perfect sense, even though I was just a child.

    The funny thing is that it still makes sense to me.

    All I want is to live in a little house, with a little garden, in a little village and do the things that normal people do: go to work, come home, watch TV, cook food, eat, do gardening, have a pet, feed the birds. All I want is an ordinary life.

    Presently, the only piece of furniture I own is a coffee table, which I repurposed as a TV stand. One of the few possessions I own which isn’t designed to be carried around easily, is the TV, which sits atop the TV stand. Other than that, everything else can be thrown into a bag… and there isn’t very much “everything else” left. Most of my possessions have been discarded, because my life was too chaotic and I was too unwell to cope with safeguarding my material things, when my life and my sanity were at risk and all too often nearly lost forever.

    Every time I was forced to move as a child – 8 different schools – it was nonsensical and disruptive; it was traumatic and damaging. Every time I found myself packing my bags, yet again, a pattern was being established: I was being psychologically programmed. The message my parents were sending me was loud and clear: “Don’t get attached to anything, anywhere or anybody”.

    I gave up on the idea of having a settled, secure, normal life.

    When I separated from my wife and an acrimonious divorce began, it really didn’t bother me as much as it should have done, to lose my house, lose my precious things and to end up sleeping rough – homeless and destitute. I camped in bushes, where I could hide my tent. I slept in a bivouac on heathland. I was invisible in a city with a daytime population of 10 million inhabitants. My home and my bed shrank and shrank, until it was simply the tiny patch of ground on which I stood or lay. My personal space shrank to be no bigger than the volume occupied by the extremities of my body.

    When I saw the chance to move from being homeless to living in a very luxurious apartment with amazing views of the capital city, the idea was too attractive for me to resist.

    I had two years bursting with pride about how I’d pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and was no longer sleeping rough; no longer homeless. I had to pinch myself every time I stepped inside my home, and was greeted by breathtaking panoramic views over London. That feeling never wore off… the whole time I lived there.

    I want that again. I want to live somewhere special. I want that special feeling that I’m living in a proper place, after the awfulness I’ve been through in life.

    Yes, I’m sympathetic towards those who are sleeping rough, and those who are living in a very dire situation. No, it doesn’t make me happy just to have a roof over my head.

    I’ve lived anywhere. I’ve slept rough all over London. I’ve slept in 14-bed hostel dorms. I’ve slept in psychiatric wards, hospitals and police cells.

    I do NOT want to live anywhere.

    It was a big deal when I got the keys to a gorgeous home with sea views, roughly ten and a half months ago. I still feel a great buzz when I visit that place, and I stand at the window admiring the views over the bay. I love that home, but unfortunately, it’s not my home… although technically I can sleep there whenever I want, for another month and a half.

    I shouldn’t be getting stressed out about moving. My life will be much better when I have a home again. Hopefully I can have a beautiful home which I can fill with lovely things. Hopefully I can stay there. Hopefully I won’t have to leave. Hopefully my world won’t be destroyed again.

    Currently, I have no idea where, when or how I’m going to get myself a home, let alone whether I’ll have the opportunity to fill it up with lovely things.

    My upbringing taught me one clear lesson, again and again: Expect nothing, except to lose everything that you get attached to.

     

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  • I Hate Renting Houses

    This is a story about the rentier class…

    Assured shorthold tenancy

    I spend a lot of time dealing with brain-dead individuals who think they should get paid a lot of money for jobs they’re thoroughly incompetent at, as well as being so utterly unbelievably stupid that they would put a Terms of Service contract onto their website, which was stolen from a fast-food restaurant.

    Unfortunately I have to deal with lettings agents who think it’s OK to charge the best part of £400 or more, for putting a document in a photocopier and then filling in a couple of blanks, such as the name of the tenant and the amount of rent payable.

    Like, I mean, how much do you actually think you should get paid for filling in 5 pieces of information onto a document you don’t understand, and doing a bit of photocopying.

    The UK government has helpfully provided a very nice model contract, for anybody who is looking to rent out their home. This document includes all kinds of useful guidance, such as “it’s not OK to demand sex in lieu of rent” for f**kwits who think they can write whatever the hell they want into a contract, and it somehow supersedes the laws of the country.

    You cannot, for example, draw up a contract that allows you to punch me, stab me and/or kill me, and avoid punishment for the crime, because I signed a so-called waiver. I cannot waive my rights using civil law. The criminal laws of the country will always take precedence over any contract law. That is to say that my statutory rights are not affected by any bullshit piece of paper that I sign.

    When you buy a pair of shoes, you’ll sometimes sign a piece of paper that says you can’t return them and get a refund. However, that doesn’t affect your statutory rights, and you’re quite within your legal rights to return the shoes if they’re faulty or defective in some way.

    The law defends us from all sorts of unscrupulous unethical chancers who want our money but don’t want to work for it – in short, they want our money, but they’re not going to do any work to get it. Those people are called the rentier class who believe they’re entitled to money for nothing.

    The rentier class piss me off.

    I just want to have a place to live. I want to have a secure home. That’s all I want.

    Here is an email, which I took the time to research and write on my goddam Sunday afternoon, when I’m supposed to be relaxing:

    Dear XXX XXXX,

    Many thanks for showing me around XXXXXXX on Saturday afternoon, and your prompt reply to my queries was greatly appreciated. I am interested in renting the property as it adequately met my requirements, but I felt I should write to you with regards to keeping a pet cat. The answer you supplied is not satisfactory I’m afraid.

    I must draw you, your agency and the landlord’s attention to the matter of UK law, when it comes to the keeping of pets. The Consumer Rights Act (2015) stipulates that the keeping of a pet cannot be reasonably refused, unless the pet would cause a nuisance to the occupiers of neighbouring properties or significantly increase wear and tear to the property. According to the Unfair Terms in Consumer Contracts Regulations (1999) The Office of Fair Trading deems a “No Pets” clause unlawful.

    The law is very clear: “[a] landlord cannot exercise a blanket ban on pets”. Your quote “the Landlord has stipulated No Pets at the property” which is an incontrovertible piece of written evidence of unlawful behaviour on the part of the landlord, you and your agency.

    The property is unfurnished and has hard floors throughout, such that the keeping of a cat would clearly not increase wear and tear to the property. A cat would certainly not cause a nuisance to the occupiers of neighbouring properties. I noticed several neighbourhood cats during my visit to the property.

    Given that the landlord has unreasonably refused for me to keep a cat at the property, which is an unlawful contravention of The Consumer Rights Act (2015) as a goodwill gesture I am prepared to offer a modest increase to the deposit and an additional contract clause whereby the tenant accepts any responsibility for pet damage to the property. This would give the landlord an exceptionally high level of protection, for the incredibly unlikely event that an ordinary domestic cat might cause damage or additional wear and tear. This extra money would be held in the Deposit Protection Scheme (DPS) in addition to the substantial deposit already proposed by your agency.

    Naturally, the Assured Shorthold Tenancy agreement would be amended, so that it is contractually stipulated that the keeping of one single cat was permitted. Any additional pets would require consent from the landlord, which is standard practice.

    It is not my intention to turn the landlord’s property into a zoo. It would be perfectly reasonable – for example – for the landlord to refuse the keeping of a large dog, which would be likely to bark loudly and thus cause annoyance to the neighbours.

    My request is most reasonable and the UK courts will robustly defend my legal right to keep a pet cat. I hope you will forgive me for reminding you again that it is not lawful for a landlord to “exercise a blanket ban on pets and should not turn a request down without good reason”. 

    I humbly suggest you and your agency thoroughly familiarise yourself with the laws of England and Wales pertaining to landlords, tenants and letting agents, such that your future business is conducted lawfully. The necessary statutes which you and your agency should familiarise yourself with are: The Landlord and Tenant Act (1985), Consumer Contracts Regulations (1999) and Consumer Rights Act (2015).

    I advise you to inform your client of any laws which he or she might not have been aware of, such that any more unlawful behaviour might be avoided in future. Perhaps you might then be so kind as to respond again to my question about keeping a pet cat, when you are next able to speak to your client.

    It disappoints me that your agency who charge fees of £311.54 for the simple preparation of an Assured Shorthold Tenancy agreement, should be so woefully ill-informed of the laws of the United Kingdom. Ignorance of the law is no defence in court. I am especially disappointed that you are charging a substantial professional fees for your services, when you are conspiring with your clients to break the law.

    My advice is offered at the cost of a leisurely Sunday I could have spent spent relaxing, so I hope you appreciate the effort I have made in providing you with a comprehensive summary of how to conduct your business and advise your clients, without breaking the laws of England and Wales, which would be financially costly and reputationally damaging. Consider my free advice to be a goodwill gift.

    I assure you that my only intention is to rent a property, with the statutory protections afforded to me by UK law, such that my right to live in peaceful enjoyment of the property as my home is not legally infringed. It seems like a reasonable request to me. Would you agree?

    I trust this message finds you well and I hope to receive a reply at your earliest convenience.

    I hope you had a good weekend.

    Kind regards,

    Nick

    That’s my politest possible way of saying you can’t fuck with me, you rentier class c**t. And demanding to enjoy the same freedom in life that those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth get. We should not have a two-tier society, where the rentier class don’t have to work, and the rentier class should not make unreasonable demands, such as disallowing the proletariat the comfort of having a pet.

    Rant over.

     

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