Voyage to the End of the Room [antikvár]

his is how I became rich: I was at home at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon. Rich? Rich for many. Comfortable for some. Comfort-ably well-off I would say. By most standards. I own a fiat which is more than adequate for one person, a space which, in many cities of the world (both the rougher and ritzier ones), would be judged excessive. I have a majestic study. I have two bedrooms, though the second one could be considered a bedroom only by estate agents, since if you were to put a bed in it, there really wouldn't be room for anything else. I have a reasonable lounge, a respectable kitchen and bathroom, and — here's a real extravagance — there's another would-be bathroom, containing a toilet and a tiny basin. The flat's split-level and the generous staircase adds to the sense of expanse. I always find walking up and down its chunky carpeting soothing. Being at the top of the house, the light's always good and the walls are old and solid enough to limit my neighbours' sonic invasions, and, as I'm two storeys up and muffled by trees (thoughtfully planted a hundred years ago and not yet entirely destroyed by the fumes and shenanigans of motorists), the din from the road doesn't reach me either. In the two weeks of sunshine that pass for summer in this country I have the luxury of a roof terrace and the chance to give some of my plants an outing.