Last weekend was a strange, and a little
unsettling, weekend. I am still undecided as to why it was quite so unsettling,
maybe because I have spent the weekend with various friends; all at very
different life stages to myself and it made me think a lot about where I am in
my life.
I have realised I am guilty of being too
reflective and spending far too much time looking around at everyone else, evaluating
their life, comparing it to my own and wondering why our lives are so
different, rather than considering what is right for me to be doing at this
moment in time. Although that on it’s own is easier said than done.
Friday night I met up with a dear friend who is
now happily married to a wonderful guy and living in suburbia. Her life is a
stark change to only a few years back when we cruised the bars of SW11, dancing
on tables and stumbling home with a bag of chips in one hand and our high heels
in the other, then spending the morning comatose on the sofa, watching
Hollyoaks, sipping Lucozade and munching toast. Our most recent meeting was unfortunately
a quick one, due to her long commute, and consisted of a few glasses of wine
whilst we dissected various aspects of my love life, then laughed hysterically at
stories of ovulation tests, demands put on husbands during attempts to get
pregnant and the various sexual positions one has to get oneself into, to aid
fertilisation post-coital activity.
Saturday I met another wonderful friend for
coffee, which turned into a very long brunch, followed by more coffee. This
time we dissected her love life. Selfishly, I admit this friend is my constant;
the one I can rely on, the one I consider myself to be most similar to, and someone
who really does understand me. She ‘gets’ the momentary freak-out’s, the feeling
of the ticking of the clock, the questions I ask myself in the dead of night, yet
at the same time we share the same pickiness and have both confessed that we
actually quite like our beautiful flats, perfectly done the way WE want them
and have admitted that having someone else around would only get in the way.
And, besides, there is no way we’d give up half the wardrobe space.
Saturday evening and I was invited to my first
house party in years, by my new friends. I love making new friends, especially in London where it is so hard to meet interesting people. As yet,
we’re not used to seeing each other in ‘proper’ clothing or makeup; we
meet most mornings to throw ourselves around Clapham Common at 6am, in what has affectionately
been coined ‘bootycamp’. I was clearly out of practise in the ways of the house party; turning up in
ridiculously high heels, leather miniskirt, silk tank top (white – big mistake)
and a bottle of champagne. Safe to say I’m a little more used to bars these
days, although it was still fun to queue for the loo in the corridor, chatting
to 27 year old boys, who thought I was 25 (joy!), trying to impress me with
their junior positions in advertising agencies, not realising what I did for a
living, then being stunned to silence when I confessed my career of choice, and
age.
I have to admit, I did a bit of snooping around
upstairs, and with fond memories, realised something I had long forgotten since
owning my own house. When you flat share you have little choice but to squeeze
all, or most, of your worldly goods into your own bedroom, whilst shared areas
are vacant of any personality and are simply, common grounds. It reminded me of
my fresher’s year at university; six girls sharing a fat, each bedroom totally
unique in interior design. Whilst sadly, the living room, where we spent most
of our time, was totally void of any character or flavour.
Sunday lunchtime, a good friend said goodbye to
her flatmate of two years as she loses her to a boyfriend. Long gone are the
lazy Sunday afternoons where all three of us didn’t manage to leave the comfort
of her sofa, unless to venture to M&S (45 seconds walk away) in our PJs
(yes, it has been done), to buy more supplies of Percy Pigs. When I asked if
she was going to miss her flatmate, she said she was sad, but being the
landlady, she was also looking forward to ‘getting the place back to mine,
getting rid of all the crap and surveying what I have’. I think safe to say, my
above observation re common ground, didn’t necessarily resonate in this
particular flat share.
Sunday evening I was invited for a roast at my oldest friend’s temporary
dwelling in SW12. He is living a transient life right now due to various
projects on the go, so to economise as much as possible, he has opted for a
shared house in Tooting with five others. Whereas I admit to being a little
jealous of the fact he’s doing something about that pesky wanderlust a lot of
us seem to harbour, what I don’t envy are the foibles that come with so many
people in one shared house; never knowing who is stealing your butter or arguing
over who needs to buy the loo roll. I’m a little too old for that.
All of this got me thinking about my own
flatmate. Whereas his lack of ability to understand how a dishwasher should be
loaded, the constant pile of shoes next to the front door, the clothes, keys,
wallet, pens, Oyster card and laptop, that are dumped somewhere in the living
room and the kitchen the minute he steps through the front door, and the
endless glasses of water I always find under his bed always amazes me. I
realise on the flip side, having a flatmate who is also my younger brother is
great; there is no bickering about who buys the butter or loo roll (I do), we
have the same outlook and morals, I can borrow his food, he makes me dinner
when I’m dog tired, we know when to leave each other alone, but best of all, I
can boss him around. Or call Mum if he doesn’t do what he is told… ;-)
