I have always wanted to live in the kind of house where, when you thought to yourself I need scissors and I need them now, you would be able to lay your hands on a pair.
In such a house, before putting the lasagne in, you would not first have to clean out the smoking crumbs from the toast you must grill because every time the toaster pops the power shorts, and no-one dares go to Harris Scarfe to replace the toaster in case that’s not the problem, because: can we really afford to get the wiring done.
The dishwasher would not have leaked so often that now the floor is warped.
If you lived in such a house, you would know how to breed children who did not cheat at connect 4 and whose creativity extended to also cleaning up the mud.
The career that you had intended to have would, at some point, have taken off. You would look at your CV and see a sensible whole, rather than a cobble of frayed strings which you can not possibly hope to explain to an employer because you can’t explain it to yourself.