0, Cumberbatch Street.

Yesterday evening I drove out to my storage unit, just to drop a couple more boxes off and feel like I'd done something productive in the quieter end of my day. I carried the boxes, a clear plastic one with the wrong lid on top, and a cardboard one with the word 'crap' printed on it far too many times, in my humble opinion. 

I got a bit spooked as I stood in the dark, empty car park space by the enormous door, my code beeped in and the metal curtain slowly and loudly starting to rise. I looked around and made sure nobody was following me as I pulled a trolley in front of the sensors (so the curtain didn't clatter shut while I was inside) and waddled down the plain white corridor, past all the grey padlocked doors, lights coming on overhead one by one as I moved further and further into the maze. I thought, as I always do, how likely it is for this place to be broken into, and/or how easy it would be to murder someone and shove them in an empty unit, like in that CSI episode. Well, in the CSI episode it was actually an illegal surgeon operating in a unit with bags of tools, body parts in jars and a rusty, blood-stained hospital bed inside it. Why did my mind go down this wormhole? There was no need. I say that a lot, 'there was no need'. Almost as much as I say 'I'm so glad you asked'. 

I don't live here. Photo by Jerome Dominici.

There was no need for you to tell me you didn't enjoy my company any more, or miss me when I wasn't there. Especially not when you were actually going through a personal crisis, and already fucking with someone else. Take ownership, you coward.

Boxes deposited, I left the building with its gates still open, and drove back to my temporary accommodation. I decided to take the route past the flat I once lived in; the one I left for love. There are no lights on, and the shutters are open. Those wonky wooden shutters used to give me such anxiety, I'd hate to leave them like that. Sometimes I'd keep them closed during the day while I was home, just so nobody could see in as they drove past or walked up the dreadful hill from the train station, panting. 

Then I drove across the main road and up the short hill where your company car used to squeal. Along the road I wanted so badly to live on - by myself though, not together. I never told anyone how badly I wanted that overpriced flat in number 10, and that I didn't want to share it. I still wonder if I'll end up there someday. That story hasn't ended yet. The one that has is around the corner, on Cumberbatch Street as I called it, where we had an offer accepted on a garden flat with no windows in the bathrooms. You bragged to my best friend once that you could have afforded it on your own. I cringed inwardly then, because what was I bringing to the table, really? A tiny lump of savings I'd once been proud of, plus a Help To Buy ISA that I couldn't even use to its full advantage with you, because you'd owned before. A collection of house plants. Too many boxes of books. Emotional honesty. Brave devotion. That was it. 

I'm excited to move soon, to a place that's all mine, somewhere new. I'll be grinning like an idiot inside the removals van, and throw myself onto my bed at the end of the day - the bed I haven't bought yet, but I know it will have storage built in, be dressed in only the pinkest sheets, and will bring me the comfiest nights sleep I've had in quite some time. 

Okay, bye.

G. x