I’ve been away from the blogosphere recently due to moving to a lovely new home and not having any Internet. But now I’m back, with a slightly more personal post than usual, all about my new place.
This is the first flat my boyfriend and I have bought (as opposed to rented) and having a place I can truly call my own means a lot to me.
Wendy Houses and bunkers
As a child, I coveted fancy Wendy houses, you know the ones with two storeys and window boxes and built in beds. Well I never got one of those, although my Dad did fashion me something rather futuristic with sheets of metal and old lino. My brother and his friends used the roof as an army bunker.
Bedrooms and dreams
My bedroom was my real sanctuary. I shared with my brother till I was seven, then I got my own room. I vividly remember showing my next door neighbour how it was decorated despite being dotted pink with camomile lotion thanks to chicken pox. It was beautiful – My Little Pony wallpaper, My Little Pony curtains, My Little Pony lampshade – can you see a theme developing? And of course there were books. Lots and lots of books. Shy and quiet, I spent most of my time reading (shocking I became a writer huh?) and my room was my escape, my place to go on adventures in my head and, most importantly, my place to write.
After eight years of renting, I finally have my first real place. It’s small, has giant windows that are going to cost a fortune to get curtains for and almost no in-built storage but I love it. I’ve found my new sanctuary and hopefully it will be a place where much brilliant writing is achieved.
Plus soon the most important bit of furniture will arrive – the bookcase!