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A friend told me recently that he tries not to spend too much time at his parents’ house because he finds it depressing. I agreed, out of gut reaction, and for a moment we shared a thin corridor in conscious thought. There’s a pause and we move on, chit-chatting about matters more pressing. On the tube on the way home, I sieve the day’s conversation through my mind, deciding what I deem profound, or funny, or beautiful enough to retain, the rest is headed for obscurity. I ponder his earlier statement and question why I agreed so easily… I sit for two stops, newspaper in hand going unread, and let my thoughts trickle through my consciousness. My parents love each other. They have friends and dinners out. Hobbies and foreign holidays. They eat five portions of fruit and vegetables a day and three bottles of red a week. They have no debts and a car each.;They love my sister and I like we’re newborn. So, I conclude at Gloucester Road, what’s so depressing about that?