A Letter to Our First Flat
Dear Flat
It's 3 AM the night after we got the keys to our new place and I've woken up buzzing with excitement like a kid at Christmas (and, in all honesty - because that's the only way to be at 3 AM - like a me at Christmas, still). We're going to start the decorating process I've been mentally planning for m o n t h s and I'm sadly desperate to get started. There's nothing in this world I love more than taking something a bit worse for wear and giving it a new lease of life.
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| Our first evening |
But sorry, flat. That's about our new house - not you. I remember staying up all night the day we confirmed we wanted to sign your lease. I was on holiday with my family, sharing a hotel room with my two sisters, and I spent the night furiously Pinteresting to channel my excess energy. Alex had been to see you on his own; we'd had a cross-continent multi-timezone phone call in which he sold me on your features in a way the crappy estate agent pictures of you couldn't (sidebar, what the sweet fuck is wrong with estate agents that 85% of them think a blurry phone pic of the corner of a room is going to make tenants/buyers want to part with their money?!) and I was equally excited then because you, flat...
You were our first home together. For both of us, the first place we were living fully after our parents' places (respectfully disregarding our respective uni halls and houseshares, when we still scurried home for 25%+ of the year). You were where we learnt to live together, where we got our first pets together (see: #ThePigpins on Instagram), where I got my first 'real' big girl job in the industry of my choosing, where we spent our first lone New Years together, and a million other things I can't bring to mind right now.
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| Our first Christmas tree |
You were where I learned to love Cardiff, venturing out in those first couple of weeks after we moved to various wifi spots in the surrounding areas to desperately job hunt and at the same time clearing patches of fog in my mental map like a low-action video game.
That was back in September 2015. Our move to you was a pic'n'mix of emotions for me - anticipation, trepidation, excitement, anxiety. I had a million unanswered and unanswerable questions: would I like it here? Would I be able to find employment? Would we be able to not kill one another without the padding of a sprawling social life and big crossed-over friendship group - followed by 12 months of long-distance - that our relationship had had for the previous four years courtesy of uni? Now, in April 2017, I know the answers to those questions (yes, yes, and mostly yes) and my feelings about our next move are much less of a jumble. Sudden moments of existential terror at the fact I'll be a homeowner by 25 - something I had never in a million years imagined possible - aside, I'm just plain 100% excited.
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| Our first bedroom |
We won't be moving out just yet - we have another two months left on your lease, which means we have a nice buffer zone of weekends and evenings in which to clean, sand, paint etc. in order to get the messiest stuff done before we start living there - but now seems like a good time to start saying goodbye to you, little flat.
Goodbye, perfect weekend afternoon nap spot in the bedroom, when the sun comes through the window at just the right angle to make a patch of warm on the bed that I can curl up in like a cat. Goodbye, excellently gigantic corner sofa that easily fits five but much more commonly just fits the two of us (joined sometimes by a plethora of guinea pigs) sprawled head-to-head or toe-to-toe. Goodbye, tiny kitchen that we somehow made workable, site of many culinary experiments and discoveries. Goodbye, tiny boiler that doesn't quite have enough capacity for two decent showers or one decent bath. Goodbye, very upstairs neighbour who is quiet 99% of the time but sometimes gets drunk and sings disconcertingly loudly and badly in the communal areas. Goodbye, those two bikes leaning in the too-narrow entrance hall which I have to wrestle my way past every goddamn morning. Goodbye, little yard where we always meant to - but never got around to - having a barbecue, full now of potted plants provided largely by our fathers and my beloved sun lounger. Goodbye, mean-looking ginger tomcat that muscles the streets and refuses to engage with me when I try and make friends with him. I think I'll miss you most of all.
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