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.
Sure, I want a lovely home to live in. And of course, I love Matt and I want to build a life with him. (See: BUYING AN ACTUAL HOUSE.) And I want to be the kind of person who patiently holds the cord of the drill while he marks something on the wall with a pencil and nods sagely and gets involved in the construction fun. But I can’t.
I’m much happier pottering around our ugly little kitchen making tea and rare roast beef sandwiches, carefully heated so the cheese just melts enough to take the chill out of their hardworking hands. I find satisfaction in feeding them almond biscotti, thoughtfully provided by Matt’s dad in classic hunter-gatherer mode. And I find a real thrill in retiring to this room to type merrily away and basically ignore the start of our renovation.