My First Flat

I’m packing up my flat. Returning it to original state.

It was such a brilliant flat to live in for a year. There’s the usual “oh, such good times happened here” (nudge nudge wink wink) sentimentality, but there’s also this feeling that in some ways, it was a sentient being that gave me honest joy.

That stupid kitchen sink. No matter how many times people would come over, if anyone ever went to fill the kettle, get a glass of water or volunteer to do the dishes, I’d shortly hear a “G-dDAMNit! Camila! Your stupid sink!” from the kitchen. The cold tap did not run straight down, as most taps are prone to do. This one had its own agenda of soaking every unsuspecting victim by spraying water straight outward. I have no idea why it does this, but I cackle when I hear people cursing it out. The hot water tap runs as it should.

The bathroom ceiling. While the flat as a whole has reasonably high ceilings, my toilet is special. There’s a short hallway in it that is about 6 feet high, which ends upon entering the actual room. I never noticed this until the first time I got gussied up and walked in wearing heels.
Some of my guy friends hover in the 6′ – 6’3″ range. They noticed on their first visit.

The kitchen window. It has a gap between the two panes of about a centimetre. Edinburgh is an excitingly windy city. In the winter, I could feel the wind rushing in through my kitchen, whistling through the gap. The large glass panes would shudder and rattle in their loose holdings. I ended up putting clingfilm along the gap and hammering a pillowcase over it in an attempt to create a draft barrier. Taped for further support. It didn’t last long before the wind forced it up, but I’m convinced it helped a bit. It definitely developed a new windy-weather sound effect.

My bedroom with its complete and total lack of personality. Constant laundry hanging from the clothes horse, with a pile lying just next to the wardrobe. The most idiotic form of lazy housekeeping, really. A desk that held books but never once did I work at.

The kitchen stove from the 60s with its perspex door on the oven. A constant threat to burning my knuckles when opening the (sideways opening!) doors.

George – my bold mouse. Running across the living room floor straight to the couch I was watching tv on. There are traps laid for him now, but I think he’s too smart for them and has moved on to terrorize another flat.

The sound of kids screaming and laughing in the nearby playground.

The tiny minifridge with the freezer compartment that was just one giant ice-block. There’s a bag of corn that’s been stuck in it since about September.

My couch. Oh that couch. What a comfortable wee beastie to lay on. I watched the entirety of Dr. Who (the new series) from that couch.

I do know that it was not the best flat. But I loved it, and it definitely had a personality of its own. Especially with that devious kitchen sink.

This was the beginning of a slow process of saying goodbye.

I still don’t want to go. I still feel a crushing weight in my chest at the thought of actually leaving and never coming back.

But I will come back.

I will.

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