My 1st post from my new digs! And I can't think of a better way to spend a fiver than on 24 hours worth of internet (so this might be the first and last post for a while...)
As moves go - and I have done three now - it was incredibly straight-forward. With the help of Scottie (the Man who came with The Van), my brother (the older - younger had absconded to Birmingham for as yet unknown purposes) and Maisy (more on her later) I loaded up said Van in less than an hour then drove down to Clapham with ma bru (I have been watching Blood Diamond again) and un-pakced said Van in a remarkable twenty-minute burst, ably assisted by Adam and James who had no excuse as they can see my front door from theirs. I say "I" loaded The Van: I was actually summarily dismissed as too weakly to do more than shift boxes seven inches through the french windows. It was in fact Maisy who did most of the first-leg hard graft: she returned from her nineteenth trip to The Van to report that Scottie and ma bru were discussing football and re-assembling the desk I had somehow managed to construct backwards.
I have now been in residence for four days and I have learnt much. Firstly, living by yourself is weird: I am suddenly aware of myself in microscopic detail. I have only ever lived in the company of others and after twenty-six years I feel like I am beginning a totally different life; I have only myself to rely on and only myself to please...I do not dislike it, for I like having time and space for myself and if I ever feel lonely I only need crank up some Kate Bush on iTunes. I do, however, miss Maisy. Good Lord I miss Maisy. I feel like we have broken up. I find myself wondering what she is doing, picturing her making coffee in the morning, or taking the bin out, which I know to be a particular favourite past-time of hers; the experience of moving into this lovely new flat would have been made exponentially more enjoyable had Maisy been here to share it with me. I cannot wait for her inaugural visit this Sunday, when gluten-free scones will be the order of the day.
I am currently bed-less, thus sleeping on a blanket-nest on the floor which has given me the three best nights sleep I have had in the last eighteen months. I am also can-opener-less, as I found to my cost, when I tried to include tuna in last night's dinner. Being internet-less is irksome, but mainly because I am denied my usual late-night perusal of the Daily Mail website. Living alone also appears to have liberated me from a range of social norms, which might explain how I came to be eating sushi in the bath this evening, or why there is, amongst other things, a sponge, two doorstops, a tape measure and a wooly hat currently on my dining table. In the absence of much furniture I have endeavoured to add the essential homely touches: there is loo-roll in the bathroom, trays brimming with ice-cubes in the freezer and a cupboard full of cheese and onion triangle crackers from M&S. Sofa schmofa, I say.
Of course, the Great Move is meaningless without the addition of a dialysis machine and I am now counting the days. One can never underestimate the torpor with which the NHS clunks along, but I hope - hope - to be starting my formal home dialysis training this week, and having learnt most of it already - I've have had a five-year learning curve - perhaps it won't be too long until David Gandy and John Barnes (seriously? No-one? Cultural references are not my hospital's strong suit) pay me a visit, like kidney failure's answer to the Mafia. Until the machine comes and I start home dialysis, it feels incredibly indulgent to be living here in this nice, roomy flat all by myself. I had not accounted for the guilt my moving here would induce; firstly, because of the expense and secondly, because...well, I haven't done anything to justify it. All I have managed to do in twenty-six years of being alive is have kidney failure and learn the whole rap to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I am not in a position to be able to re-pay the largesse that has been so generously bestowed upon me but as I made my ham and cucumber sandwich this morning to the admittedly bizarre strains of the Alan Partridge audio book I found I had downloaded on my laptop, I knew: I am going to do whatever it takes to make something of myself. One day I won't be restricted by kidney failure anymore and from that day forward my sole aim will be to make up for the time that I have lost and make my life count.
Of course I could start making my life count now by passing my Masters, and writing the essay that is due in 2 weeks instead of spending an hour on this blog post and downloading stuff from iPlayer. But with only 22 hours of internet left, why waste it doing something important?
As moves go - and I have done three now - it was incredibly straight-forward. With the help of Scottie (the Man who came with The Van), my brother (the older - younger had absconded to Birmingham for as yet unknown purposes) and Maisy (more on her later) I loaded up said Van in less than an hour then drove down to Clapham with ma bru (I have been watching Blood Diamond again) and un-pakced said Van in a remarkable twenty-minute burst, ably assisted by Adam and James who had no excuse as they can see my front door from theirs. I say "I" loaded The Van: I was actually summarily dismissed as too weakly to do more than shift boxes seven inches through the french windows. It was in fact Maisy who did most of the first-leg hard graft: she returned from her nineteenth trip to The Van to report that Scottie and ma bru were discussing football and re-assembling the desk I had somehow managed to construct backwards.
I have now been in residence for four days and I have learnt much. Firstly, living by yourself is weird: I am suddenly aware of myself in microscopic detail. I have only ever lived in the company of others and after twenty-six years I feel like I am beginning a totally different life; I have only myself to rely on and only myself to please...I do not dislike it, for I like having time and space for myself and if I ever feel lonely I only need crank up some Kate Bush on iTunes. I do, however, miss Maisy. Good Lord I miss Maisy. I feel like we have broken up. I find myself wondering what she is doing, picturing her making coffee in the morning, or taking the bin out, which I know to be a particular favourite past-time of hers; the experience of moving into this lovely new flat would have been made exponentially more enjoyable had Maisy been here to share it with me. I cannot wait for her inaugural visit this Sunday, when gluten-free scones will be the order of the day.
I am currently bed-less, thus sleeping on a blanket-nest on the floor which has given me the three best nights sleep I have had in the last eighteen months. I am also can-opener-less, as I found to my cost, when I tried to include tuna in last night's dinner. Being internet-less is irksome, but mainly because I am denied my usual late-night perusal of the Daily Mail website. Living alone also appears to have liberated me from a range of social norms, which might explain how I came to be eating sushi in the bath this evening, or why there is, amongst other things, a sponge, two doorstops, a tape measure and a wooly hat currently on my dining table. In the absence of much furniture I have endeavoured to add the essential homely touches: there is loo-roll in the bathroom, trays brimming with ice-cubes in the freezer and a cupboard full of cheese and onion triangle crackers from M&S. Sofa schmofa, I say.
Of course, the Great Move is meaningless without the addition of a dialysis machine and I am now counting the days. One can never underestimate the torpor with which the NHS clunks along, but I hope - hope - to be starting my formal home dialysis training this week, and having learnt most of it already - I've have had a five-year learning curve - perhaps it won't be too long until David Gandy and John Barnes (seriously? No-one? Cultural references are not my hospital's strong suit) pay me a visit, like kidney failure's answer to the Mafia. Until the machine comes and I start home dialysis, it feels incredibly indulgent to be living here in this nice, roomy flat all by myself. I had not accounted for the guilt my moving here would induce; firstly, because of the expense and secondly, because...well, I haven't done anything to justify it. All I have managed to do in twenty-six years of being alive is have kidney failure and learn the whole rap to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I am not in a position to be able to re-pay the largesse that has been so generously bestowed upon me but as I made my ham and cucumber sandwich this morning to the admittedly bizarre strains of the Alan Partridge audio book I found I had downloaded on my laptop, I knew: I am going to do whatever it takes to make something of myself. One day I won't be restricted by kidney failure anymore and from that day forward my sole aim will be to make up for the time that I have lost and make my life count.
Of course I could start making my life count now by passing my Masters, and writing the essay that is due in 2 weeks instead of spending an hour on this blog post and downloading stuff from iPlayer. But with only 22 hours of internet left, why waste it doing something important?
I'm so glad you are getting the home machine and can relax whilst it happens - a small thing yet massive.
ReplyDeleteEnjoy living on your own. I've always fancied it but somehow ended up with a husband and kid so make the most of the you time while you can!! xx
Thank you for your interest stuff.Prices are different in different categories like appartments,villas and etc.
ReplyDeletesitges holiday & long term rental Barcelona