P. J. Whiteley [Whiteley - A Love of Two Halves

Helen Armitage
Felicity Baker
David Baker
Alejandro Cendoya
Sue Clark
Andrew Crofts
Sarah Crouch
Katy Diggory
Anne Foster
Caroline Foster
Rebecca Galley
Johnnie Gallop
Bob & Sally Garratt
Fiona Gell
Nigel Girling
Jules Goddard
Eamonn Griffin
Sue Harrison
Paul Harvey
Sue Jennings
Nicky Kemp
Dan Kieran
Tim Kitching
Marilyn Lawrence
Yvonne Lee
Jenni Lloyd
Ann Lyon
Teena Lyons
The Management Shift Consulting
The Margate Bookie
Ian & Anne Martin
Chris McCoy
John Mitchinson
Jung Park
Justin Pollard
Tess Rosa Ruiz
Katharine St John-Brooks
Catherine Sutton
Katrina Tolley
Jacqui Trowsdale
Mark Vent
Robert Welbourn
Roger Whiteley
Peter Whiteley
Philip Whiteley
Rose Whiteley
Marian Wilde
Max Wiseberg

I had the House Dream again. It was the best yet which is to say the worst, the most vivid. I sensed, even at the most serene moments, that I was condemned to waking up. No! No! I dont want to wake up!Waking up is like dying! I wanted to watch Bronte playing, sunlight glinting on her black, shiny hair at the top of each swing, giggling. In the dream she was seven again. She jumped off the swing, rolled in the soft, green grass and white and yellow daisies, picked up my hand and said: Come on, Mum! I want to show you the rooms weve never been in yet. She led me in, up one set of stairs and then another. Nothing was like our real house and yet, in the dream, it was familiar to me, until we reached the second set of stairs. Why have I never noticed this before? I said to her. A whole extra storey that Ive never been in! We were both giggling by then. Come on, Mum, these are the best rooms. The light streamed in through elegant dormer windows, lighting up deep, soft settees and four-poster beds; Axminster carpets and oil paintings. Its like a palace, I said. Its our palace, and Im the princess, she replied.

I knew I was dreaming before awakening. It was too strange. I fought against waking up fought hard. I woke up. There was no second staircase, no extra rooms, no swing, no lawn; indeed, no garden, except for a front yard so small that if I were to sit on the window ledge and stretch out my legs, I could almost rest my ankles on the front fence. The sun was shining, at least. It shines on the rich and the poor alike. Bronte is fifteen, not seven; sixteen in two weeks time. But she was lovely: my treasure kind, clever, funny, artistic, with a great singing voice and good taste in music, for the most part. She was there at the breakfast table when I went down, eating cereal and listening to music on headphones. It was Danny who had wakened me and Id helped him get washed and dressed, complaining. Him, not me. Three years old and already with a mind very much his own. I hoped he wasnt going to turn out like Darren. Bronte, fortunately, is beginning to resemble Terry: soft in manner, artistic and kind, with high cheekbones and a beautiful face.

Danny would be with grandma the other side of Beeston today; Bronte hanging out with some friends til some point in the afternoon. Then, in the evening, wed all gather together for the telly. It was Saturday, but I didnt have a weekend shift. Id saved up 20 for myself, and I planned to go by buses to Headingley, shop in the charity stores there for designer brand cast-offs my little secret, and gather some house details my guilty obsession. As it was a nice day I didnt even mind if the buses took a long time. I would sit on the top deck, and watch the world as we went by.

It was early afternoon when the number sixty-four returned to Holbeck Moor, where I got off. Dont be fooled by the term Moor; its not like Bront Country, more like a rec. But, anyway, I was well pleased with my purchases: a beautiful, green designer top for a fiver, nearly new, and a small handbag, plus half a dozen estate agent colour brochures for north-west Leeds, nice houses near the Otley Road. The brochures were all free, of course. The staff all cheerfully handed them out to me, as I was scrubbed clean, well presented and gave a warm smile. I didnt have to confess that I was skint. I couldnt afford any of the houses; not even a garage, probably, but thats not the point, is it? I was the happiest Id been for a while, and looking forward to the pizza and wine, with cola for the kids, that evening.

Bronte wasnt back. I texted her, and she texted straight back, which was a relief. She was still in the arcades, and would be back around five. I called Mum to check Danny was OK. He was playing with toy trucks. Shed bring him back for his tea. I had around two hours to myself. I pulled out the house details. One caught my eye immediately: a gorgeous period cottage in Headingley, nicely photographed, beautifully decorated. Just under 250,000. Only two bedrooms, mind, though they did look nice; one of them en suite. I often dreamed of just wandering in from the bathroom naked, or just a towel wrapped around me, on smooth, polished wood floors, from luxurious shower room to deluxe bedroom, natural light pouring in through skylights or dormers. Still, quarter of a million for a two-bed house in Headingley! What was the world coming to? But a nice garden, mix of patio, plants and a bit of lawn, south-facing. All handy for the shops, pubs, restaurants, bars and cafes. And the cricket and rugby ground. Youre never far from sport in this part of the world. Might be appealing to a future Mr Lucky, my imaginary Mr Right, as elusive and out of reach as a spacious semi or cottage. Dream on, I told myself, but dreams can be pleasurable, especially when theyre all youve got.