Okay, okay, despite what the photo may suggest, that never happened… unless ‘that time’ is now, and ‘hippy commune’ is an umbrella code term for a 6 square meter storage space and Imar and Tamara’s flat (which, btw, is very much NOT a hippy commune). Yes, people, I am exactly where I was a year ago. Flatless and hunting once more.
Basically the short and long of it is that flatmate, Marieke, managed to bag herself an impressive job in the corporate world, and also a much cheaper flat in the northern suburb of Durbanville – just round the corner from her new office. Apart from that, our flat’s rent has also sky-rocketed to such an extent that we would have been more broke than ever if we had stayed on.
And what with my flat searches being somewhat fruitless up until now, I find myself a homeless person once more.
Anyway, this whole moving thing has become something of a yearly drill to me. You see, in the 8 years I have been out of school, there have only been two consecutive years that I lived in one place. All the other 6 saw me acting nomadic, rooting and uprooting myself, making homes, and tearing them down again. (Oh dear, this makes me sound like a rather unpleasant person to live with, but I’m not! At least I don’t think I am… oh, wait, there was that one time with the diabolically hungry bunny and Adri’s plants…).
But, whereas I used to find this gypsy lifestyle kind of exhilarating, I have to say this year it has almost succeeded in getting me down. I can finally see why people always say moving is such a traumatic experience.
So traumatic, in fact, that a good portion of early Sunday morning (the big moving day) was spent sitting on my suitcase of freshly packed clothes, staring at the heap of garments still waiting to be stuffed in somewhere, with tears of anger, frustration, irritation, self pity streaming down my face. During all this time Morne, my dad and Imar would just calmly walk in and out, lugging bags and boxes as they went and my mom would comfort, council and cajole me.
So, I now find myself at a point where I am torn between the idea of just abandoning all my burdens and becoming a restless wanderer (like that’s going to happen!)… and actually finding a place to really call my own. For a while. A good long while. Maybe even three years (gasp!). Or even until such a time as I acquire a husband, some kids, and a few dogs. And if I don’t acquire those, I guess I could just acquire more cats… and keep living there.
What I have in mind is a little place I can settle in. A place for all my books and my cat and my random little ornaments. A place where I can cultivate some kind of garden, even if I have to hang it from the ceiling. A sanctuary I can return to after awesome trips or horribly blue Mondays. A place that won’t break the bank, but also won’t crumble on top of me when I sleep.
A place that thus far doesn’t seem to exist in Cape Town, but maybe, like a naughty kitten, it will pounce on me when I least expect. Here’s to hoping!
But, in the mean time, thank you to my family and Morne for putting up with me and cheering me up and helping me lug boxes and meeting me at the creepy storage space so I don’t have to go alone and feel like I’m in a horror movie and invading their space and and and… too many things really.