168 hours

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

In a week's time, I'll be settling in to my final night in my hilltop home.

I'll watch the final spectacular sunset from my very own windowsill. I'll have an Indian takeaway as I'll have no food in and a dusty bottle of beer that needs drinking as I can't be bothered to transport it. I'll be sitting on the floor watching Netflix and listening to soul-calming tunes by candlelight as my lamps will be packed away. I'll sleep in this bed for the last time, under my recently acquired flamingo blanket, as my rotten four-year old duvet will already be in the bin. I'll be wearing the same hoodie, skirt and legging combo that I plot to wear when I rise at 6:15am the next day, stretch and drink a cup of tea, clamber into my car and hit the road.

I'll head for the petrol station, grab a quick coffee of questionable quality and a bottle of water big enough to last four hours, and make way for the motorway. Carefully planned playlists will get me through the morning, and I want to drive without stopping. A22, M25, M42, M5, M6, M56, Princess Road, right at the lights and then home. Or not home, but somewhere to call home for a few days.

I'll stack my boxes quietly in a corner and refrain from unpacking them and I'll bake brownies to say thank you for letting me stay. I'll walk into town on a hopefully sunny day and meet my new line manager and touch base with her line manager once more. I'll sort out my shifts, meander around the city centre and then take my sweet time in walking back again. I'll soak up the sights, explore little nooks and crannies, memorise scents and feels. I'll see what parks my new city has to offer and perhaps pick a tree to sit bare-legged under, just writing or reading or thinking.

I'll continue along my journey until I reach where I've parked my boxes, my car, and my soul for a little while. I'll have an Indian takeaway as I'll have no food in and a dusty bottle of beer that needs drinking. And everything will be the same. The same, but totally different.

No comments:

Post a Comment