My first day in a house spent alone, I wander around my house wondering what to do with myself. I shower with the door open, alternating between singing cheesy songs as far out of tune as is humanly possible and thinking about post-big-city arrivals, when I’ll have nothing but at least a few more months stretching out in front of me. Suddenly friends are creeping out, half-blinded, and socially inept from spending too long pouring over notes on excel sheets they’ll never really understand, grabbing me by the shoulders and pleading let’s go for a drink as if it’s not quite acceptable yet.
Its my place now, so I dress in my shabbiest and yet comfiest clothes and wander around the house. I empty the box of spoons and pots that my landlord gave earlier, and fill my cupboards, I sit in every antique chair in the living room, each giving me a slightly different perspective than the one before. The doorbell rings and the salesman asks for some name I haven't heard of. I explain the person hasn't been living here and that nobody has lived here for a few years,
I sit, cross-legged on the carpet on my living room floor; organising my office bag & tearing up those sheets that invariable accumulate. I have a series of tests coming up and I choose topics to study, and mark them carefully with a bright post-it. Open book exams are a blessing. When the flatmate finally arrives home, he greets me with an expression reminiscent of the Hillary-Tenzing adventures and a Marks & Spencers bag-full of beer.
It was warmer after that.
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