21 August 2013
Where I Am Now
But now? Now I'm trying to avoid doing any laundry. You have my full attention.
So here we are: seven and a half weeks into owning our new flat and I still haven't given you the tour. There are two bedrooms and a huge living room and a dining room and a kitchen and a shower room and a loft. There's even a garden. And an outhouse and a half (that's one outhouse of our own and one which we share with the downstairs neighbour, not "an outhouse and a half!" like it's got a disco ball and electricity and, you know, walls tiled in some sort of trendy ombre mosaic or something. Though our next door neighbours' outhouse does have a sofa-bed and some artwork in it. And our other next door neighbours' outhouse is home to two chickens).
The loft is going to become Steve's man lair. I feel I need to justify this. I'm not one of those girlfriends who bans all evidence of her boyfriend's existence from the living room. Steve's far too messy for that. And I quite like hanging out in the same room while I read and he kills aliens on the X-box. And, also, you know, he's put quite a lot of money into this place; it seems unfair not to let him enjoy it. And also, mostly, he has some self-esteem and wouldn't stand for that sort of nonsense.
No, Steve has a man lair because he has an obscene amount of stuff.
I get a woman bookcase. In the spare bedroom. Because I throw things out.
Anyway, seven and a half weeks and it totally feels like home. After seven and a half days it totally felt like home. Less than that. It feels right. This flat feels like it's meant to be ours (and I don't usually go in for all that destiny talk).
Though the neighbourhood has taken some getting used to. We've gone from the hustle and bustle of the city centre, with traffic and drunken singing at all hours, the occasional late night comedian ringing the buzzer, and the stench of the ships in the harbour to... well... somewhere really nice. We're in what used to be a little village that got swallowed up by the city; the houses are old granite homes of assorted shapes and sizes; there are kids playing in the middle of the road outside; we know what the big shaggy dog next door is called ("Brodie"); it's frequently absolutely silent (when the kids are in bed, you know); and there are flowers outside every single home.
No, I can accept that we live in the flat of my dreams (I mean, it's old; it will take lots of maintenance; the wiring needs looked at and the floorboards creak. Don't get carried away. But it's exactly the home I always pictured myself - and latterly us - living in); what I can't accept is that the flat of my dreams is in a lovely area. That feels awfully grown up.
So, anyway, we've spent quite a bit of time over the last seven and a half weeks painting walls. We've had one room recarpeted. We've got an electrician and a plumber both quoting us for work. We've built a bed and we have bits of furniture sitting around which we no longer seem to need. On Sunday, we're taking the very scary step of drilling holes in the walls and hanging shelves (by "we", I suspect I mean "Steve's dad"). There's some more painting and laying of flooring to do.
At some point I'll share some before and afters.
In the mean time, I hope you've enjoyed this stream of consciousness absolute excess of words.
Posted by Sarah at 20:09