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wasted.
    It was a good summer, long and hot, the days cracked open and bare, but it was hard to enjoy when it felt so deadended.
    We spent our days on the front doorstep, circling job adverts with optimistic red felt-pens, trying to make plans, talking about travelling, or moving to London, or opening a cafe, each plan sounding definite until the next morning.
    I don’t think any of us had the confidence, not for the sort of plans we were making, not for all those websites and fashion boutiques and doughnut shops.
    A time of easy certainty had come to an end, and most of us had lost our nerve.
    We used to sit on those front steps long into the evenings, long after the conversations had faltered, dragging our duvets downstairs when the stars finally squeezed out, flicking the ringpulls of empty beercans, blowing tunes into empty wine bottles.
    Wondering what to do next.
    Most of the photos I’ve got were taken in that last week, rushing around, trying to make up for three unrecorded years.
    Pictures of the house, my bedroom, the front door with the number painted on it, the view of the street from my window.
    But mostly the pictures are of my friends then, drinking tea in the kitchen, piled up in someone’s bed, throwing a frisbee across the street.
    And in all the pictures they’re looking straight at the camera, always grinning and waving.
    I sat in my room that evening, the phone still in my hand, looking at all those photographs, looking closely, as though I’d not seen them before.
    Studying the expressions on their faces, looking for hidden details.
    It was strange how important the pictures felt, like vital documents that should be kept in a fireproof tin instead of being blu-tacked and pinned to the wall.
    Somehow, although we spent the whole summer doing nothing, it felt like the most significant part of my life, until now.
    I dialled the number again, and it was engaged.
    I don’t think I knew what I was going to say. I don’t know why I thought I’d find it any easier to tell her than Sarah.
    I think I thought that, once I’d managed to say it, she’d at least be the one who would be able to help.
    I think I hoped there would be shock and tearful reaction, that then she’d offer practical help and sensible advice.
    That maybe she’d say why don’t you come and stay for a few days and we’ll talk it through, you and me and your dad.
    Like a family, like a proper family.
    I don’t know why I thought these things, I don’t know why I thought anything would be any different suddenly.
    Perhaps I thought that exceptional circumstances could change the way of things.
    I sat there, listening to the engaged tone, trying to think of the right words.
    Telephone conversations with my mother are never very easy.
    There always seems to be a weighting inside them, things left unspoken, things not fully spoken.
    She says things gently and discreetly, carefully holding back her full implication.
    Like holding playing cards against her chest.
    When I told her about my latest new job she said that sounds very nice and what other opportunities have you been looking at?
    She says things like, I don’t think you’re making full use of your degree, my love.
    She says things like, it doesn’t sound as though you’re stretching yourself.
    She doesn’t say what the hell kind of a job is that, or what are you actually doing with your life here?
    I wonder if I wish she would.
    I got through eventually.
    My dad answered, he picked up the phone and sighed and said yes, please?
    He’s always answered the phone like that, as though he was afraid of who might be trying to speak to him, of what they might be intending to say.
    I said hi dad it’s me, is mum there, and he said no, no she’s not, she’s gone out tonight.
    I’m not sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.
    I could hear him clutching the phone tightly, holding it away from his face as though he didn’t think it was entirely safe, the way he always does, and