I swear I never feel more like sitting down to do some writing than when all my possessions are heaped across a room that I'm attempting to move out of. This is very much the case right now. I feel like I've earned a break having just unloaded a fridge full of things that had set up better civilisations than the human race.
What with moving house, leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and the imminent Olympic ceremony everything's feeling scarily like those crafty Mayans might just have been right. Is this the end of the world or do I just really hate packing?
Because I really do hate packing.
Since I left University in 2009 I have lived in 9 different places (and that's only counting Edinburgh once - if I counted each time I'd been it would be 11 separate living arrangements in 3 years). That's an awful lot of times to have to evaluate the heap of crap in front of you and ask if it was healthy to still be wearing bras bought in 2009.
It's amazing how much can happen in 3 years. 9 houses can happen in 3 years. In the last 3 years I have acquired (in order of importance):
* 2 beautiful nephews
* a grown up flat to live in like a proper grown up
* lifelong memories of Lapland, elves and some brilliant friends
* a fledgling comedy career
* some incredible house mates
* a tonne of confidence
* status as a Brightonian
* a grown up job in the city
* more cellulite than I would have liked
In the last 3 years I have lost:
* some incredible house mates
* a grown up job in the city
* my status as a Londoner
* at least 6 inches of height due to a tobogganing accident
* my copy of Goodfellas on DVD
That list took close to 45 minutes to pull together, and were it not for the heap of crap taunting me I could probably make it much longer. It's been a hell of a 3 years. If all 3 years are going to be like this then I'm going to be properly wrinkled by my mid-thirties. Mind you, if I carry on at this rate then by the time I'm 37 I'll have lived in another 44 dwellings so I think I'll be a bag lady living under a box with a mangy beagle to keep me company while I sing show tunes into a lampshade.
We're forecast a storm tonight in Brighton. I'm not sure if the weather men could possibly have known I'd feel so blustery at what appears to be the end of yet another era, but I think we'll have incoming showers by midnight.
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