The weekly post
I was away last week, staying with my sister. We cleaned and wrote and designed an advert for the paper. We laughed and ate a lot of chocolate; we shared some sister time, which was much needed. And now I’m back home and I’ve realized that this really is my home. This flat I’ve filled with sofas and lamps and antique furniture and swirls of incense. This is my home, and I don’t want to leave it. I’ve always rented and have had many addresses in my thirty-four years, but this little flat by the sea is the only place I have ever truly felt at home. I arrived here in broken pieces and stitched myself back together. I found myself here.
This is becoming a problem and I’m not sure how I can remedy it. I’ve been talking and thinking about moving back to the city so much that I haven’t questioned it – it was simply the most logical next step to take. But now that I really am arriving at D-Day I realise that I have been living in the past and the future, and overlooking what i have in the present. And my present needs me to remain here, i feel, to nurture my fledgling business so that one day i can return to London (or wherever my path takes me) with a solid foundation beneath my feet.
I need to think about this some more…
