Moving
I really hate having to move house. Am not officially required to leave this place until the middle of August (and really, I can't wait, because I do hate this house), but am packing all my stuff up and moving it out now so there isn't a huge job to do at the same time as cleaning every last corner of the place when the tenancy ends.
But really, I'm crap and putting my life into cardboard boxes and suitcases. I just have too much shit, and I like to stash it away in little nooks and find it several months later wondering what the hell it's for. And I like this little stashes because they make me feel at home. I wonder how this next year will pan out, living-wise. Will I get to the end of that year and flee for another place? I wonder...
It'll be nice to have a smaller house, and to actually be away from the friendship circle. And get new ones, too. But I'll have work, and academia, and all my little self-improvement projects, and the dance society, and Hayley for the autumn term, and all sorts of things going on which will affect what it's like living with people. Medics, at that, I believe, who will have different timetables to me anyway. It will be interesting.
But what I'm really on about is what moving makes me think about, which is usually hating moving, being sick of having to go home to Oxford every now and then, and a deep longing for a house of my own. Or just a flat. Or anything, but a place that is my own and that I can decorate and cultivate and leave all my shit stashed away in all its little nooks. And the biggest room in it would have no carpet and a wall of mirrors and no furniture.
Still. Writing this is just procrastination whilst I look at the shit strewn all over my floor where I'm waiting for it to pack itself, when really I need to be sorting it and packing it and thinking about all the stuff I'm going to do when I'm at home. Driving lessons, swimming, writing, more driving lessons.
But now I really need to pack. Really really.