I haven’t had many chances to sit down and write anything proper on here for ages. I’ve been fully caught up in work and general life and mince pies. Most of what I do manage to post is half written on my phone or rushed at the end of the work day if I can bring myself to engage my brain at 5:30pm on a totally different subject- which doesn’t happen often. I actually got an email from someone checking I was okay as I hadn’t been blogging much and I melted inside a bit because people are inherently good (despite what the news might lead us to believe lately).
I’ve also been really busy packing and unpacking my belongings and making bad commuting decisions and generally mourning the sun. Sunset before 3pm is BLEAK and I am not okay with it. I moved house recently, and when I say moved, I mean I left my flat of almost three years with nowhere new lined up and am now (equipped with my boyfriend and a lot of stuff in loft storage) staying with my parents until we work our lives out.
Leaving that flat was hard. It was so hard. We’ve been comfortable there for so long and it was the perfect mix of functioning adult and young vodka drinking revellers, neatly nestled in bustling zone 2. It took a lot of building up to. A lot of googling options. A lot of refusing to actually pack a box and mostly just denial that it was time to move on.
Moving on is hard. If time would just stop for a while so we can all deal with our lives and just not worry about getting older that would be grand. But it’s not going to happen. Moving on is a natural part of life and it has to be done, even when it feels like the total worst thing at the time. I’m confident there’s great value in tapping into future you and giving yourself a lecture, and when I say lecture, I mean just shouting ‘IT’S TIME YOU FOOL.’
Life in the Fulham flat with two of our friends and two other housemates (it was a bloody enormous flat FYI with Victorian fire places and everything) was ideal for a long time. We did all the normal things like going to work everyday, we got promotions, new jobs, we travelled, we cooked from scratch, threw NYE parties, we cleaned bathrooms and gathered on Sunday mornings to drink coffee. What we also did was balance all that out by occasionally dancing on the kitchen table, getting far too drunk on wine, owning a strobe light, arriving home mob-handed at 7am after an all-nighter with bags of McDonalds and being neighbourhood nuisances. We did enough of both to make life just how we wanted it, but all the while we got three years older and moved into our mid-twenties. Inevitable, but scary.
Now I’m not saying in any way, shape, or form that mid-twenties is the time to settle down and forget drinking gin cocktails until 2am in bars you can’t afford to be in, because I intend on continuing this. I have no idea when is the right time to do anything. Literally clueless. If you do know or have some sort of magic book with all the answers then do let me know. I used to try and have a master plan for everything but honestly, there’s just no point. Life just has a way of working out, and even if you don’t like it at the time, things change and get better eventually.
That’s why the whole accepting it’s time to move on is important. It’s fine to drag things out a while but in the end, you have to do yourself a favour. I felt like I was letting go of everything fun and free and waving bye to the lovely little town that had become my home and comfort, but actually, two weeks on, and I just feel normal again and ready to do whatever comes next. Us humans adapt remarkably well, so we should fear moving on less and just say yes.
So now comes the home hunting and the driving round new places and the ‘shall we take our savings and move to Thailand though because isn’t it nice in Thailand?’ part.
For now I’m sitting in the warm living room at home surrounded by Christmas lights with this view and I’m very okay about that: