Big, black fellas
Is Preston finally over? I fucking well hope so. All being well, this will be my last twenty minutes working here, though there's a niggling possibility they'll want me to come back in on Monday to do a final check that the replacements are doing okay.
I'm not really feeling any sadness or suspicions I'll miss the place. It's been three years here now, as a student and then staff, and it feels like it's run its course. Perhaps if I didn't have something new and shiny on the horizon to aim for I'd be clinging to it a little more, but with work around Manchester to be done there's nothing much holding me here. I walk the streets without looking where I'm going, and I think that's a sign you've done a town.
There are a few brief points about the house: the cellar smells; big, black fella Ryan does actually exist; we need to buy a TV license (actually, I'll do that online now... there we go, done); I've got the knack of locking the front door; we got the washing machine fitted the other night after a little water-based mishap; cricket fans have an irritating habit of leaving Old Trafford in dribs and drabs, meaning there's a continual flow of people in your way no matter the time of day; we still need a fridge; everyone seems to be suffering from the same virus which causes annoying lethargy, myself in particular (so so tired...); and the air around the place seems quiet and clear, light reflecting from places I'd never noticed before, sounds bouncing through the open windows never quite revealing exactly what they are.
I suppose being in a new house and town offers a lot of interest. It's not overwhelming me as it has done in the past, but it's certainly been the happy move I was hoping for and I can't ask for much more than that.
I'm not really feeling any sadness or suspicions I'll miss the place. It's been three years here now, as a student and then staff, and it feels like it's run its course. Perhaps if I didn't have something new and shiny on the horizon to aim for I'd be clinging to it a little more, but with work around Manchester to be done there's nothing much holding me here. I walk the streets without looking where I'm going, and I think that's a sign you've done a town.
There are a few brief points about the house: the cellar smells; big, black fella Ryan does actually exist; we need to buy a TV license (actually, I'll do that online now... there we go, done); I've got the knack of locking the front door; we got the washing machine fitted the other night after a little water-based mishap; cricket fans have an irritating habit of leaving Old Trafford in dribs and drabs, meaning there's a continual flow of people in your way no matter the time of day; we still need a fridge; everyone seems to be suffering from the same virus which causes annoying lethargy, myself in particular (so so tired...); and the air around the place seems quiet and clear, light reflecting from places I'd never noticed before, sounds bouncing through the open windows never quite revealing exactly what they are.
I suppose being in a new house and town offers a lot of interest. It's not overwhelming me as it has done in the past, but it's certainly been the happy move I was hoping for and I can't ask for much more than that.