Folks, I’ve done it. The Flat and I have finally parted ways. Moved not quite to where I want to be as the perfect place is yet to be found. I thought that it had, but no. Another COVID related interruption but still I’ve done it. I’ve moved. The whole process was not without the usual toing and froing that I seem to think necessary with every major life decision. It would be so nice to be like Michael Jordan, he of basketball fame (yes, I had to check that), who, once he made a decision, never thought about it again. This is, I know, the definition of a decision but I think so very few of us actually make them.
Decisions, I find, are like shoes. For, instead of sending them for recycling once done with, I put them away in a nice, possibly patterned, box and stash them in the attic. But then, because they are still actually in the house, I take them out from time to time, look at them from every angle, and then put them away again, sometimes with regret, but always with the thought of having another look at them sometime later.
It was only when I came to leave the Flat, that I fully realised how much I feel the need for a physical anchor. Some people are able to float through life, the “wherever I lay my hat is my home” folks, but I am not one of them. Still, I am surprised to find that I am actually relieved to have left the Flat behind. And this despite the fact that I have come face to face with the amount of stuff I have accumulated. I have a slight worry that I will end ignominiously a crazy old lady felled by the sheer volume of her belongings… and eaten by the Cat.
I summoned my inner Marie Kondo and resolved only keep the things that are useful, beautiful or have sentimental value. And still it is a lot of stuff. I hired rubbish collectors and made the necessary appointment at the local recycling centre. And still there is a lot of stuff. While packing and unpacking and repacking, I have been reacquainted with old friends. There is an embarrassing number of shoes (actual real ones) and handbags but in my defence, they are all well over 10 years old and were, I thought, essential for my life as a London professional. Now I am no longer a London professional, I have little need of them but you never know… they may well be useful one day.
Finally I was ready and so of course scheduled to move on the hottest day of September. The poor movers had to walk up and down, and down and up, four flights of stairs. They were very good-natured about the whole enterprise. They, bless them, said nothing about the shoes (!) but did sigh and comment on the number of books. I do love a book… especially ones with gorgeous, inspirational photography. And alongside the books, I have several surprisingly weighty boxes of tear sheets of interior inspiration. Yes, yes I know there’s Pinterest and all that, but I am resolutely analogue in this regard. The latest idea to enthral me is from a recent issue of Elle Decoration (October 2020) in which architect Giuliano Andrea dell’Uva lined the showers of his client’s apartment with his fabric. Yes, you read that correctly. Genius!
Fabric on walls I know all about, and wallpaper in showers is not new to me but this… what an epic idea. I am captivated. The Boyfriend has been tasked with working out how best to accomplish this marvellous feat, encompassing resin and shuttering and some such, while I scratch my head about which of my designs would suit best. Of course this is made both easier and more difficult by the fact that I don’t have a physical shower within which to place said fabric… yet. All the best houses are in my head. I am hoping that the Universe will take a look inside and point me in the right direction. Once ensconced in my new home, complete with fabric-lined showers, I shall of course share with you the wonder of how it was achieved. The Boyfriend is absurdly talented in this regard. Really it shouldn’t be allowed. Only today he made me a loo roll holder from a broom handle.
But for now it’s back to unpacking and repacking… and house hunting.