Not a democracy

I want to cover this, but I don’t want to go into any great detail. I might return to it at some point, but right now I just think I should set the scene so that I can point out some of the consequences, because they’re relevant. It’ll help you understand – if you need to – why certain circumstances have developed.

In February of 2009, I was in a car accident. Nicola and I were driving from Greenock to Glasgow, when her car stalled while we were on the motorway. We couldn’t get out of the lane we were in and so we coasted to a halt in the lane adjacent to the fast lane. We sat there for about seven minutes before we were hit from behind at around 70 mph. It’s not a long time but it’s long enough to realise that a collision is inevitable. And it’s long enough to come to terms with the fact that the chances of surviving it are slim.

We did survive, which was a fairly pleasant surprise. But there were consequences. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and some physical injuries. “Moderate to severe” whiplash, some fibrosis, calcification of the supraspinatus tendon and a rotator cuff tear. I had some counselling for the PTSD and some physiotherapy for the physical injuries, but neither treatment has completely been successful – the repercussions of this accident are likely to last for a good while yet.

In a very short period of time, I lost my flat in Greenock and became homeless, lost my job at the clinic in Glasgow when it closed down and had to deal with the repercussions of that accident. I moved back in with my parents to get some support and I’m still living there now. I’m finally ready to move back out again, so as soon as I get a new flat in Edinburgh, I’ll have my independence and privacy once again. That, however, will have to wait until either I can afford to put down a deposit or the council offer me a place. And since I want to get into the town centre, I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to have to wait.

I’ve lived in the schemes before. I had a flat in Peffermill when I was in my early twenties and I have fond memories of that place. I’ve also lived in Craigmillar, Niddrie and Gracemount. And those are all areas I could return to quite easily, if I was to compromise on the areas I was interested in. But I’m holding out for something better than that. In general, it’s the city centre. In particular, it’s the Grassmarket, the South Side, or the Cowgate.

Every week, the council publish a list of flats available and I take a look. I get to select three places from the list that I would like and if I hold more points than anyone else who has requested that particular place then I’ll get it. It’s a long process, because the places I’m holding out for are popular ones, so I’m relying on having more points and I’m only getting those through longevity – being on the list longer than my competitors. I’m not sure that it’s the most effective strategy.

I’ve considered sharing, but I’m not sure that’s the best move for me. I don’t like not having control of my environment. I like space to spread out and to stamp my own personality onto. Once I’m settled somewhere, I’d probably be happy to let other people come in and share with me, but only on my terms – and that’s not exactly the most compromising of attitudes. Not exactly conducive to a shared living space.

I described my ultimate fantasy to some friends, once and they liked the concept. I told them that if I had enough money, I’d buy a derelict farm or a similar property in the middle of nowhere. Some large, ramshackle, rambling place with a lot of space and a lot of character. It wouldn’t even matter if large chunks of the building weren’t completely suitable for habitation. So long as there was a room I could live comfortably in and a room I could cook in, then I could set about restoring the rest of it.

I said that people could come and stay. Hippies, artists, creative types who are attracted to this kind of environment. People who want to escape from the city and recharge themselves and contribute to the general atmosphere.

We got very creative with the concept and we all ran with it a bit, adding bits and pieces to the overall picture. There would be bean bags and couches and coal fires. There would be massive windows overlooking trees and a huge garden and wilderness. In the winter, the snow would make the fire cosy and the house would be a shelter from the storm. In the summer, there would be barbecues and laughter and friends and parties and drinking.

I decided there would be a yurt, because I’d seen one at the Wicker Man music festival a few years ago and thought it was amazing. I used to visit a place called Wiston Lodge, where I had seen longhouses and where I had once helped build a tepee, so I incorporated those into my fantasy home, too. There’d be vegetable gardens and treehouses and a bath outside that was fully plumbed in with hot water. Not a Jacuzzi – an actual bath. And there would be a constant “clothing optional” policy in place, so if anyone wanted to be naked, then that was also completely cool. Because – let’s face it – the person most likely to want to be naked was me.

And finally, one of my friends said “That sounds great. Like a big hippy commune where everybody gets a say in how things are run.” And at that point I realised that my vision was a little different from hers.

“Fuck, no!” I answered diplomatically. “It’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. The place is mine.”