It has walls, ceilings, windows and all sorts of other things that come together to make what we call "a house". It even has an outside toilet. Not that I shall be using it, but the fact that it does is somewhat exciting; I could answer the call of nature in the fresh air if I wanted. Although I probably would close the door, just for appearances sake. It has to be said that I have not moved in yet; I have yet to install my saucepans in the kitchen cupboards, to align my pencils on the desk and to christen the toilet. I haven't had time to book an appointment with the vicar yet, let alone take it to the local St Thomas'. But soon I will be eating in a new kitchen, sleeping in a new bed and stumbling up new stairs after a few too many at the Grindstone not 50 yards from my front door (the proximity of the pub is a feature that I particularly relish) and I have to say I have mixed feelings on the matter.
Houses are funny things aren't they? An old house can contain hundreds of years worth of memories, thousands of lives, millions of memories and countless spiders and bluebottles. You never know what could have happened in your house before you got there. Go back in time and there might have been a young family, struggling to make ends meet without their bankers' bonuses ("Theobald might have to give up the polo classes!"); an old lady whose husband still hasn't come back from the chip shop after nine years; maybe even someone who would rather not be remembered. In a friend's house we found strange red spatter marks at about head height in the shower. Freaky.
And as important as what's been before is the mark you put on the house yourself. Perhaps that's why leaving is so hard; I don't want my presence in this room to be entirely forgotten. I'm toying with the idea of boobytripping the bedside table with a boxing glove on a spring, or maybe a gun that produces a flag saying bang (assuming, of course, Acne didn't go out of business along with Loony Toons). It's somewhat strange and a tad discomforting to think that soon the Eiffel Tower on the back of my door could be replaced with Robert Pattinson posing as an undead romantic; the Golden Gate Bridge with a chart of drinking games; or 'Your First Spanish Words' with Cheryl Cole in nothing but a bed sheet. Actually, perhaps that's a change that should be implemented sooner...
So as exciting as it is to be moving somewhere new, I can't help feeling slightly daunted by the change. Living with my three best friends is possibly the most exciting prospect since Elizabeth asked Philip if he'd like to bring his mistress to bed tonight, but I'll be sad to leave behind my beloved room; even if the curtains don't close properly and I live opposite a Brummy who still thinks he's in the sixties and has a worrying obsession with Monty Python. More than anything it's scary to think I'll be a proper adult; I don't think I should be entrusted with the responsibility. I still struggle to clean my teeth without making my gums bleed, how am I meant to pay bills and remember to put the alarm on when I leave the house?
Dammit, that reminds me. Oh bugger, I'd better pop back...
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