Monday, August 11, 2008

A room of my own

I'm learning recently (from my parents) that the most practical thing might not be the best thing, the right thing to do. (In fact, the best things are seldom practical.) Living on my own might be the best thing to do for me now, although it is a bit scary and a more practical solution could be found. But maybe that would just make me put off what I should be doing. Spare time, as scary as it is, might give birth to something valuable.

I'm sitting in my temporary flat next to the railways. Trains pass by in all directions, making electric blue arcs, shaking the building from its foundations. Railways stand on archs, archs made of dirty gray tiles. These tiles cover the buildings, black frames hold windows. This place is like a fishermen's town. I am close to water. And I hope to be anchored soon.

Or maybe I am already anchored. As long as I write.

1 comment:

lightcapsule said...


(this doesn't qualify as a post of its own, I figured it fits here.)

my flat

I may not always take the best care of it, but I love my flat. maybe my flat deserves a better tenant. (just spilled coffee on the carpet!) the first time I walked into it, I literally fell in love with it. after a summer of going around places that had something wrong with them, it was so perfect - newly refurbished, separate kitchen, high ceilings, long windows, new appliances, nice location, quiet street, first floor etc... It was unfurnished and cost much more than I was prepared to pay for it, but I thought it was amazing. I walked out to the high street (the first time I'd been to the neighborhood, admittedly precious) and called my parents, explaining how wonderful it was, and asked for their help. I put down an offer, signed a contract, was ready to pay the rent and the deposit, but the agent couldn't give me a move-in date. the whole building had to be inspected for gas, electricity etc, and the landlord still hadn't gotten a date for it. I had five days before I had to move out of my old flat, was due to start work full-time in a week. I'm not really used to things not going my way - I was furious, desperate, I kept calling them, wrote a looong heartfelt letter to their customer services lady (who later gave me a bottle of champagne) and another agent kept calling me, so I went to see other flats with him, I walked around Ikea and made lists of suitable furniture but didn't know I would get the flat, every time the tube went through Baker Street I would say with arabesque determination, "this will be my stop!"

I lived in a temporary place literally next to railways for my first full-time week at work. it was during the Russia-Georgia war. I'm not even going into the Ikea trips after I moved into the flat. such a hassle to pick the furniture, get it delivered, find out some pieces are broken, some are missing, going back. my dad put them all together, my mom picked out the kitchen supplies (that's why they are in sets of three!). for the desk I'm writing on (Gustav) I think my parents and I went back twice.

I'm extending my lease for a year now, and I remembered all this today, sorry about the stream of consciousness!