August 5th 2019
Today I found myself strangely excited about the thought of getting my own place. For any out-of-the-loop readers, a brief explanation: I’ve been living at my parents’ house for the last year, since I moved out of the house that I shared with my ex.
I lived there alone for a while, but hated it, and struggled mentally with it, so moved back home for what was supposed to be only a little while. Almost a year later and I’m still here. Mum and Dad aren’t though. They’re currently somewhere in France, and for the previous two months they’ve been either somewhere in France, or somewhere in Italy, and I’ve been somewhere in Swindon “housesitting”.
I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m capable of living by myself, because last year I wasn’t. This year, though, I’m actually enjoying it. I did get a text from a Uni friend of mine last week asking if I fancied moving to Bristol to live with them and, yeah, I do, but I’ve also been having visions of my own place. And it’s all because of some dude with a knife.
Let me explain, because that’s a weird thing to say.
There was a market fair on in Gloucester, where I work, the other week, with food stalls, and jewellery stands, and a dude selling kitchen knives. He gave us this demonstration of how easily this knife cut through vegetables and he kept repeating things like “perfectly balanced, all one piece of metal as you’d expect” and although I wouldn’t know to expect that, I wanted to buy those knives for my kitchen. But I don’t have a kitchen. My Mum has a kitchen, and yeah I could’ve bought them for her kitchen but I wanted to buy them for my kitchen. So that meant I had to get a kitchen. Which means getting a place of my own.
So that’s what I’m going to do. And then I can get my own utensils, and skillets, and woks, and all kinds of stuff. And that isn’t usually the kind of thing that I’d get excited about, but I think I need to.
Until tomorrow, and so I will.