Dear flat. Lovely flat, from whom I’ve been parted for too long, I have some promises to make you. When I’m allowed back to you, things will be different. I shall not abuse you and leave you in a terrible state.
It’s time to get out of this hospital… I have clearly lost the plot because I, messiest person on the planet, have been making actual lists and plans for tidiness. I have seemingly exhausted making lists of knitting, sewing and cooking projects and started fantasising about clean floors and organised shelving.
‘My’ space in the flat is the kitchen. M has a little study that we created in the back of the living room. That whole room must stay immaculate for peace and sanity. The kitchen however is a nightmare. Partly it’s to do with the fact that I never gave everything a rightful place. And partly it’s because I leave everything everywhere. The cooking bits are ok – it’s the dining area that us a state. I’m lucky to have this kind of space in London, so I hereby resolve to treat it better.
It’s basically a table with some ubiquitous Billy shelves to the left. These are stuffed full of books, but also every other bit of stationary I own, plus unopened letters, pins, cards, all randomly shoved in. But behind the table is where the true evil is. Ten bags, at least, of stuff, all spilling on the floor and piled up. Stuff from old school, stuff ‘to sort out’, stuff stuff stuff.
Right. I WILL sort it out.
When I get out I will take a picture of the horror. And then there will be beauty. I resolve it. I owe it to the flat.
Here’s the horror. Puke.
Ooh there’s my beautiful handbag that M gave me for Christmas. Hanging about, highlighting the horror through its beauty.