Yes, that is my Batman wall. I’ll need to find a new place for it I suppose.
Dear reader, the next time you hear from me, I will be in my new house. Blogging from a new kitchen with more cupboard space and plenty of natural light so I can start my herb garden.
The thought of this fills me with a mixture of maudlin sentimentality and optimistic promise.
I am moving out of my flat. The place I have called home for years now. The four walls I have lived in, decorated, messed up, tidied, cooked, slept, showered and found sanctuary in for a large proportion in my life.
I’ve felt a safety behind that painted black door, when the world was too much and I wanted the warm embrace of self-imposed solitude.
I will miss it. I’ll miss the way the floorboards in the kitchen are connected to next door’s, so when they walked through it sounded like someone was walking in my flat and terrified me (until I got used to it). I’ll miss the way the front door wasn’t quite tight enough and rattled in the wind. I will miss my sofa/TV arrangement which made me look like an antisocial shut-in whenever I had guests round but was actually perfect for a night of binge-watching. I will miss the way if you sat in a certain spot, the fridge sounded like it was undulating.
While many of these things seem like annoyances, they were a part of my home. They were the flaws that gave it character and personality. The quirks you learn to live with that become intrinsic to your relationship. It will be hard to let go.
The optimism stems from the fact that, obviously, I am moving into a new house. So there is hope, there is promise in the near future.
If I were to pinpoint one thing about the new house which was most exciting me, it would have to be the new shower. It may seem inconsequential to most people but a good shower is an absolute deal breaker for me.
In my current home, the shower is in a tiny slipper shoe bathtub and the door opens into the corridor, so it is exceptionally drafty. There is barely enough space for me to move, nevermind shower, and I keep whacking my head on the low ceiling. It was not built for a person of my stature. I haven’t owned a shower since I moved home from Newcastle and baths are not a feasible, long term option for me. I am 6ft 2, so I either sit upright or my legs stay dry the entire time. And don’t get me started on the nightmare that is washing my hair in the bath.
The new house has a proper cubicle which is upstairs away from any drafts. It’s not exactly Brobdingnagian, but there is enough space for me to enjoy relaxing and rejuvenating showers without fear of repercussion. I’m not going to be swing dancing in there but I will be able to wash my hair without whacking my funny bone every time.
It’s also somewhat of a blank canvas, so I can decorate it as I see fit. I can put things where I want and have it laid out in a manner that befits me. So I can have my bed on the floor if I want (I can’t, due to SOMEONE’S allergies), I can have a living area upstairs (complete with mancave, which is just all the duvets). It really is my space to do with as I wish. I can keep it tidy and clean because it will become my home.
Become… that’s the only thing that worries me. The interim period where it goes from a house with my stuff in, to my home… with my stuff in. However, change is important. It’s a sign of growth.
The only thing I have left to do is finish my packing and deciding what would be a fitting meal to send off the old fellow.
I think it’s going to be a chilli con carne. It’s warm, simple and homely. Just like my old haunt.
Goodbye, my friend, I will cherish every moment…