IT’S not actually day forty seven, or seventy two, or eight thousand and ninety five.
I think if I tried to calculate what day it is today, I might well start hyperventilating – like the way I do when I watch space programmes on TV and wonder if I’m actually a microbe on the leg of a flea, and if my flea’s about to be swatted by a rolled up Martian Times.
It is, however, a Saturday. A day of a hundred implicit should do’s and could do’s. A day where fat blobs of rain hang stagnantly on the windows and shivering blades of grass warn you off venturing outside.
It’d be a great day for sorting things. Starting with the house. You see, it’s not quite got that Nigella-style cosiness about it yet: that enveloping smug order, where the cushions smell of cinnamon and the lights bleed out a warm, ambient fuzz. Truth is, the TV’s still propped up on a grey filing cabinet that got dented during the move, and there’s seemed little point in vacuuming around the half-emptied suitcases and their exploded innards.
But there we are. Here we are. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while about all of this: about how things are since I sold off bits of my life and moved away. About how it’s really, pretty much, the same over here, just with slightly different weather and a new computer login.
I know you had your serious face on when you told me over our lattes that there’s no such thing as a new start. We were doing our weekly Starbucks role-play – the one where I get whipped up into a frappa frenzy and you give me the eye roll. I think I actually knew, even then, that you were right.
I’m not going to speak about this much anymore. Let’s just note, for the record, that day one was a while ago.