Monday, October 29, 2012

A house is not a home

Am currently looking for somewhere to live. It's nice; a new start somewhere else, but the aggro factor is high as ever. And for the singleton, the aggro factor is ramped up by a few degrees as ever. It's expensive, of course, with nobody to share the cost with, and it's also miserable schlepping around the homes with only an estate agent who keeps saying 'yourself' instead of 'you' to keep you company, and just wants your money.

And I never thought house-hunting could bring on intimations of mortality. When you realise you can't have a long-term mortgage as you're too old, you think 'WTF am I doing this for, anyway?'. 'What are the priorities for yourself?' asks the ten-year-old estate agent. Personally, I just want somewhere where the ceiling won't collapse, and I can be as far away from this arsehole as possible. Anything else is just gravy, because it's not really a home, is it?

A home is...somewhere with a heart. Somewhere beyond somewhere to shut the door and shut out the world, somewhere where you want to go. Somewhere where there's another warm body to go home to. Before I die, I would love to have somebody I care about, and who cares about me to go home to, but I fear that wherever I end up will be just another box with some stuff in it, until I end up in a box.

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