![]() Last time I stayed over I’d offered Krystyna a cup of tea and afterwards he said it was embarrassing: ‘It’s not your place to offer’. ‘Looks great,’ I say politely, careful not to overstep my opinion. Krystyna, his ‘handywoman’ is scrubbing plaster from the cornicing. Inside, his living room is filled with wet foam. Later he tells me he ate bad fish, slept with a bucket by his bed. He was up all night writing his life goals, he says. He wears a cream jumper, creased jeans and his luggage for our mini-break is on his hall floor, stuffed into two plastic bags from Waitrose. His eyes are pink when he opens the front door of his new house.
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