Nobody likes moving house, especially with a bag o' hangovers. But I did it; I'm so proud (was that an incorrect semi-colon use there? I'm not sure anymore).
Happily ensconced in my shiny new attic room with skylight windows, I can listen to the traffic outside, and still, still, I dream of faraway beaches, of adventures yet had, of awayness, when I think for this past while I've strived for hereness.
Human nature perhaps? Or a fickle Sagittarian urge? I'm not going anywhere, despite the book on Indonesia I've been poring through; I can't, I'm broke. And I don't really want to go anywhere now, I just want to think about it. For the moment.
On a less whimsical note, my new room smells of feet. I met my predecessor, her feet did not stench, I checked. So what could it be? I've mopped the maple-coloured boards and burned enough lavender to repel a coven, but still it lingers, like a bad date that seems to live in the dairy section of Tescos, or a fart on the DART when you thought it was Tara St, but really it was Pearse.
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6 comments:
You checked? How did that go?
Anywhere fancy?
Moving house is a pain in the hole. Packing is my enemy. So well done for accomplishing it with a hangover, I'm truly impressed!
I moved out from a flat the morning I was moving to Australia. No idea how I managed that.
@ Radge, good, she's French, she seemed to understand.
@ Holemaster, I is totally always fancy...god, from flat to Oz...did a skip form a large part of the operation?
@ Kitty, thanks! I've lived out of a suitcase for long enough to hopefully use it as a kind of life-model.
I lived with a guy whose feet stank so bad it actually impregnated the walls.
Soak the entire room with tomato juice, leave for a week then rinse.
The smell will be gone, and your room will be a snazzy shade of red after.
win win.
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