The unthinkable is happening. I’m moving back to my parents’ house.
Thanks to a ‘clerical error’ by my housemate, it turns out that we don’t have the contract on our lovely house until the end of August. We, in fact, have to be out of here this weekend. And since I’m still unemployed and still unable to bring myself to start claiming benefits, I can’t afford more deposits and bonds and agency fees. So Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee have found themselves rooms in Cardiff with a friend of a friend, and I’m back to rural Herefordshire where the electricity is generated by windmills and ruddy-faced people look at you funny with their mad starin’ eyes.
As I write this, I’m surrounded by boxes and bags and all that superfluous crap you seem to accumulate without even realising it. The number of pencil sharpeners I’ve collected over the years is startling. The volume of novelty key rings is even worse. But it’s ok; I’m on top of the packing. Having spent less than a year in every house I’ve lived in over the last five years (all nine of them), I’m something of a packing wizard now. And it’s not the inevitable bureaucratic rubbish that I’m stressed about. Having spent a fair chunk of time on the phone to electricity providers, gas suppliers, phone companies and the like, I’ve found that any sense of fear and apprehension I once felt when in contact with them has fast dissipated and given way to continued irritation and indignance. And I do love being indignant. So that’s not the problem.
The problem is, obviously, the fact that I’m moving back to my parents’ house. There’ll be no more staggering in at 4am for drunken Wii battles, mainly because they live 25 miles away from the nearest nightclub (if you could call a room full of amply sized rugby shirt wearing farmers a ‘nightclub’), and public transport in the area leaves an awful lot to be desired. Two buses a day, but only if there’s an R in the month and the moon is in Capricorn. And anyway, I doubt very much Dad is going to be game for a Monkey Ball tournament at that hour. There’ll be no more popping round to friends’ houses for a cup of tea and an afternoon of Miami Ink, because all my friends from Herefordshire have, quite sensibly, moved away, or live in another village and as such ‘popping round’ necessitates a half hour drive. Plus, to watch Miami Ink you need Sky, which requires a satellite dish, which to the rah-rahs would ruin the appearance of their chocolate box period houses and to the serfs cause them to cower in fear of such technological witchcraft. And then there’s the proverbial ‘Where are you going?’ ‘What time will you be back?’ ‘Dinner’s ready NOW’ etc.
So, a complete lifestyle change; a regression into my teenage years coupled with this hideous sense of failure. They’ve only just gotten rid of my younger sister and now their eldest is shuffling home at the grand age of 24, tail between her legs, head down and mumbling apologies.
So until I get a job, blog entries from this point, then, will come from a more rural climate. Provided, of course, I can get my laptop hooked up to the windmill.