Over the last few years I’ve become accustomed to packing up all my belongings and moving house. When I was in London I moved house at least every six months.
My first flat in London was in the lovely suburb of Notting Hill with my then boyfriend. But after that relationship imploded within 3 weeks of us moving to London, I moved into a flat share with an Aussie guy who had lived in London for quite a number of years. After 6 months and too many occasions catching him smoking in the flat, even though he had promised that he would only ever smoke on the balcony, the final straw that made me move out was coming home one night and finding him drunk (again) with a mate. I was in the kitchen making myself a bagel when he came over to me and ranting about what an asshole his mate was before grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors and trying to cut himself in front of me.
The next flat I lived in was with my friend Christine, where we shared a house with a lovely Aussie guy called Mike and a Welshman, who thought of himself as quite the ladies’ man. He would often show us Facebook photos of all his girlfriends in Thailand, where he would visit a couple of times a year, usually to visit some “new girlfriend”. Creepy.
The next few places I lived in were wonderful, and it made me realise how happy one could be if you lived with good friends who were considerate flat mates. Even though London flats are small and the rooms even smaller, it was comforting and a relief after a long day at work to come home to a warm home and smiling faces.
When I returned to Sydney last year, I moved back into my own little flat in the cafe suburb of Balmain. Although I missed the company of flat mates, it was also nice to have your own space, your own mess, and not having to worry about wandering around the place nude.
Now, a little over a year later, I’m moving again! I’m leaving the bachelorette pad and moving in with my man. A new chapter of my life, and hopefully no more packing and moving for a while!