|Photo: Hannah Millard Photography|
I've been feeling all a bit funny these past few days.
I think it might be because I've been in the House of Pastelle for nearly two whole weeks. Two weeks is about the length of time I have spent in any one place for the past four months. I can't help but feel that despite the Victorian-style windowsill decor and the spotty tablecloth; the star-shaped hotwater-bottle and the "LAURA! SORT OUT YOUR LIFE!" to-do list on the side of the wardrobe; the "Lie back and think of England" posters and the bulging dirty laundry basket that all declare this little boxed room as my own, that there will be a knock on the door any moment now and an Italian-accented voice will ask me, "You-are-ready-for-to-go-train?"
It feels like a trick to see people I know and people who know me every single day, and sometimes when I am still wearing my (inside-out) pajamas.
I went twenty-four hours without seeing Calum and when he came over for a cuppa we both marvelled, "And to think normally it is nine months between cups of tea! We could drink three in a row right now and do it all again tomorrow!" It was a celebration worthy of chocolate Hob-Nobs, but I didn't have any in. We drank cider instead.
I wouldn't change this whole year for anything. All the new
I didn't even mind when the fire alarm went off and I had to stand outside in the cold wearing pigtails. It doesn't bother me if I have to wash up someone else's cereal bowl because it is the cereal bowl of my FRIEND who I LIVE WITH and WHO CARES IF I AM STILL OUT AT 2 A.M. WITH A BOY SHE HAS NEVER MET. That is what it is all about, isn't it? I don't think I knew that. You forget that people care when life is forever on the road.
But I do have one small problem. A little concern. What worries me is this.
If everything is so fucking rosey, what on earth will I blog about?