by LUCY CHESTERTON
It’s Sunday afternoon and as I write this sentence, the keyboard is twitching.
It’s not a hangover and thank the gods of alcohol it’s not, because I couldn’t cope with the actual cause if I was nursing a sore head.
My partner Matthew and I have just moved into our first place. And I thought becoming first-time homeowners would inspire a slew of posts about the quagmire of paperwork that comes with buying something as immovable as an actual HOUSE – made for real, live, HUMANS to live in and not an assortment of Barbie dolls who leave the plastic doors unlocked – or the complex rules of good-neighbour etiquette or even the imposter syndrome that you feel when you first start to play at being a Proper Grown Up.
Instead, what I want to write about is tea.
Because Matt and his dad are in there, drilling holes in our bathroom wall, causing my keyboard to tremble, and I have done nothing but ferry a few cups into our bathroom (a first, I should add. We don’t normally take our tea on the toilet).
You see, there’s a lot of renovation ahead of us. And I could not be less interested.