Nothing to write home about

Here I am, wobbling on a ladder hanging curtains in my living room which has the highest ceiling. Ever. With every tremulous movement my eye catches something:The fair trade curtains that we had a pay an extra premium for because at 4.5 metres, they’re too long for the seamstress’s table.
The windows that we set to work paining as soon as we moved in because frankly, that eighties grey paintwork was just depressing. The aluminium Venetian blinds are long gone, thank god.

As I move around the place, cleaning, sprucing up, I think about all the stories in this place. The kitchen that took 18 months to complete. The floor we laid ourselves, a rite of passage, emerging from 18 months of chronic fatigue and finding I could finally do something so strenuous. There are so many good memories tied up in this home, it will be a wrench when the time comes to say goodbye.

But things move on. Our relocation is beginning to evolve. This week we’ve seen four estate agents. Some come round and are as enthusiastic about the place as we are. Others are a bit sniffy. One advised that we need to make an effort to tidy up. Another told us to “keep it really tidy, just like this”. One remarked on the good security. Another asked if we had problems with break ins. Whoever handles the sale, hopefully it won’t take too long. We’ve already had a neighbour enquire on behalf of a friend.

I know I’ll never live anywhere as wonderful and extraordinary again. But I’ll be happy to leave. Already, I’m thinking about writing workshops, courses, conferences I can attend in the UK. I might even risk joining a writer’s group (even though my last experiences would probably have put an inexperienced writer off writing for good). I don’t have a job to go to, not yet, but something great will turn up. I can feel it in the air.

Now the apartment is done it’s time to start spring cleaning the rest of my life.