Well. About 45.6 seconds ago, I tumbled out of bed, phoned the agent and said, "THE LEASE FOR THAT APARTMENT IS MINE! Er, please can it be mine?"The weekend has been spent tossing around a decision on two places. One is a reasonably sized garden cottage on a property in Parkhurst, close to the shops, and with garden and pool; the other is a swish parquet-floored apartment in Craighall with a large balcony that could happily seat 15 of my friends.
It came down to making a pro's and con's list. And budgeting, and considering things like domestic maintenance and security. If I'm living on my own, the place has to be secure. The Craighall kitchen has been renovated and is ultra-modern and all that, as well as the bathroom. It also has a spare study. And heaps of storage space.
And, although not within walking distance of shops (The Colony is close by...but the new me doesn't go there anymore), and Hyde Park is a block away. I've decided to take it, moving end of this month before I go to the UK.
I have a new home! Scary. Jesus. It's really happening.
But out of all these learning experiences over the last few months, and all that fucking character building mumbo jumbo and bullshit – or not bullshit – but bullshit right now – stuff....the most emotional part for me is moving.
I've been waking up before the birds tweet cold sweating The Big Move. I've been here for four years, it's going to be hard to leave. It's really been home. The reasons for moving are paramount though, and it has to be done: change, new start, the place I reside is now shabby, I can afford to move, I want to live by myself, etc etc etc.
But this place holds a lot of memories. I've been boxing and throwing out stuff for a week now – the stuff I don't want is going to charity, Pretty and Lucas – but it's a serious change out of all the changes that have happened to me. My flat has always been my one constant. My refuge where I sing karaoke and where Lucas, the security guard, takes it upon himself to indoctrinate all my men.
I haven't had the heart to tell Lucas I'm moving yet. It's going to be horrible. You have to realise that Lucas, who kind of works sometimes, sometimes not – has been in this building for over 30 years. He's like 70 years old. He found out I was from Natal when I first moved in, and never really forgot that. (He's from Eshowe and in his limited dialect – for I don't know what he says half the time – he's just animated about his family holidays.)
He doesn't only look after my friends cars, he has taken it upon himself to be my legal guardian. Which has its up and downsides, believe you me. Every guy that comes for a napover or is my boyfriend gets a hard time with Lucas. He's poked them: ([poke poke] “Who are you and why are you here?”), he's asked what their intentions are before, he's basically embarrassed me more times than I can remember.
But...his intentions are good. The only person he has really liked in recent times is 3RM. I suppose Third Roommate bribes him with beer and other sweet talk, but I suppose he also knows 3RM doesn't have dodgy intentions. Lucas has actually been a good judge of character from if I look back on things, but he's also been a liability.
If I traipse in drunk late on a Saturday night, Lucas wags his little finger at me. I swear to God. “Where have you been?” Or before I get to my car: “Where are you going and with who, a BOYFRIEND?” It's hectic.
Telling him I'm going is going to be awful.
