Leaving home

Last night, promptly six hours after deciding it would be so, I told my flatmates that I was moving out with K-Blonde. I have no problems with moving, but it's going to hurt financially. I didn't realise that I had such a great deal where I currently am.

I'm not only worried about the financial side, I'm genuinely sad about leaving the place. I've been here for going on four years now, since I was at uni. My bedroom is the most square feet that I've ever had to call my own. My mural made out of postcards and general colourful life-souvenirs that spreads over one corner will have to be taken down.

First time I slept with someone who wasn't my boyfriend was in that room. First queen bed. First time someone played me a song they'd written about me.

It was in that room that I hid in while my flatmates raged on outside. It was in that room that Dominique and I made a mattress land that we both could live in for the last weeks while we saved to go to London. It was in that room that I searched like a zombie for my led zepp albums on the Sunday night that Scott died, in case Dad wanted to play any of those songs that we listened to at his funeral. And I'm pretty sure it was in that room that I managed to tell the lover that I loved him. It was definitely the place that he broke up with me the most often.

So anyway, I've become a deflated trawler of realestate.com, trying to find the next room of first times. A decent bathroom and kitchen thrown in is apparently too much to ask these days, though.