1216: Hometime

I am writing this to you from English soil. Boooooo!

Yes, that’s right; we’re back home. Apologies to those of you who are in the Toronto area who maybe wanted to catch up and we didn’t get the opportunity to — turns out we filled two full weeks pretty nicely with Stuff to Do.

A very public “thanks” to Mark and Lynette for putting us up for two weeks at their lovely house with its regular squirrel visitors, and thanks to our mutual friend Jonathan for providing us with some board and card game entertainment on more than one occasion. It’s a shame we didn’t have more time to try some games a little more than we did — I would have liked to play A Touch of Evil again, and I’m bummed we didn’t get time to play Mice & Mystics — but we’ll just have to save those for next time, I guess!

The flight back was uneventful, and unusually for me, I managed to actually sleep for most of it. This was perhaps at least partly due to the fact that we had to be up at some ungodly hour in the morning to actually catch the plane, but perhaps it was also a case of the prior two weeks catching up with us somewhat. It wasn’t the most hectic, chaotic holiday I’ve been on — thankfully; I’m not a big fan of holidays where you’re constantly doing stuff and never get any time to just kick back and relax — but it had enough stuff going on to keep things interesting while wearing us out somewhat. To be honest, my main priority for the trip was to see my friends rather than do the “tourist” thing, but I’m glad we had the opportunity for a jaunt around the ROM and the zoo while we were there.

I think the highlight of Toronto for me has to be the board game cafe Snakes & Lattes that I mentioned the other day. If there was such a place here in Southampton, I think I would probably spend a lot of time there — so long as I could find people to go with, of course.

There actually is a regularly-meeting board game group here in Southampton, but I have held off attending thus far due to my own issues with social anxiety and meeting new people. I have little doubt that I would probably have a good time if I just went along and met some new people, but it’s getting over that initial hurdle that’s the tough bit. Of course, if I lived in Toronto and attended Snakes on a regular basis, I’d probably run into the same issue, so… well. That’s something to contemplate another time.

It is both nice to be back and sad to be home. We both had a great time, and I hope we get the chance to do it again sometime soon. For now, however, I think it’s probably time to get some sleep!

#oneaday, Day 273: Roots

“And so it is said,” quoth the ancient texts that I’ve just made up in my head, “that the Place in which a Man shall lay his Roots is not chosen by the Man, but rather the Place.”

And so it was that this weekend I found myself back in the vicinity of Southampton, the City of Lost Dreams. The circumstances under which I was back in said city (or specifically, the adjacent town of Beastleigh Eastleigh) are not the subject of today’s post; rather, the curious twists of fate that lead someone to return to the same place time and time again are.

My original choice to go to Southampton was based almost entirely on the university campus. The lush greenery, the pleasantly rolling hills of the campus grounds, the pleasant water features—all of these things combined to make me think that “yes, this is the place I’d like to be”. That and the fact that it was one of very few places in the whole country running the English and Music course that I was interested in studying. Incidentally, if you’re about to go to university and you are currently justifying your choice of degree subject by saying “it’s a good general qualification, good for anything, really” then just stop, punch yourself in the face and go and pick something specialist that leads directly into a career you’re interested in. Seriously. It will save you a lot of annoyance a few years down the road.

I studied in Southampton and successfully completed my degree, despite a few early-morning lectures ditched in favour of trips to the campus coffee shop, and one piano workshop which I had to leave in favour of being a bit sick in the Turner Sims concert hall’s toilets. I decided that I liked it there for various reasons, so I took on a teacher training course primarily as a means of staying in Southampton, and also as a means of getting a career appropriate to my skillset. Once that was over and done with, I moved to Winchester, which is a much smaller, nicer and more expensive town than Southampton. But my heart was still in the city of WestQuay.

I spent two years in Winchester, living in The Nicest Flat In The World for the first year and A House That Would Be Quite Nice Were It Not So Mouldy And Smelling Of Gas in the second. Following this, I moved to Aldershot to be closer to my job. I then quit said job and moved back to Southampton into another Flat That Would Be Quite Nice Were It Not So Mouldy But Not Smelling Of Gas This Time because I had a job in, yes, Southampton. Tired of mould, I moved into the place in the city centre that was to become the final resting place of my hopes and dreams for my life that was. During all that time, even when I hadn’t lived in the city itself, it felt like “base camp”, home. A place to be centred. This was partly (or probably mostly) to do with the people who were there—people who were and still are important to me.

Leaving the city behind was tough, as was probably apparent from the blog posts around that period. It was so tough, in fact, that it took nearly all day to say goodbye to four people. In fact, it did take all day, and my overburdened car was not on its way up the M3 until the sun had long since dipped over the horizon.

Now, circumstances, Fate, whatever you want to call it; something has intervened and is dragging me back there. I’m not complaining (except at the cost of petrol or train tickets, both of which are extortionate) but I do get something of a wry grin on my face when I think of the city (and, by extension, its surrounding smaller towns and cities like Eastleigh and Winchester). It’s like a stubborn child that won’t quit until it gets what it wants, tugging on my metaphorical coat sleeves to attract my attention and pointing, oh look, over there, there’s a badger with a gun, can you see? Wouldn’t it be awesome if that was in your back garden?

So what will happen in the long term? I couldn’t honestly say. A lot will depend on the job situation, which still isn’t resolved yet. But let’s just say that there’s something of a quasi-gravitational pull in a south-westerly direction. It may be hard to resist that call for long.

#oneaday, Day 236: Moving Day

Apologies for the lack of comic today. I’ve run out of filler material. Note to self: stockpile strips for use in situations like this. Normal business will resume tomorrow.

Edit: Look, I added a picture, making that first paragraph completely redundant. I could have deleted it. But I’ve chosen not to.

You’ll forgive me if I forego my usually verbose nature (he says, picking the most pretentious words possible) just for the sake of today, I’m sure. Today has been a day of mixed feelings that I haven’t finished processing myself. So I don’t think I have any concrete conclusions to offer; this is just going to be one of those self-indulgent rambles.

No change there, then.

Today, I left behind the fine/chav-infested capital of the South Coast, Southampton. I know it feels like I’ve been saying this for a while now. But today it finally happened. I left my flat, I dropped my keys through the letterbox (picturing them landing and bouncing on the carpet inside in slow-motion with appropriately overdramatic “slam” sound effects with each impact) and said a last goodbye to the place I had once called home. It was difficult to do. I stood there with my hand in the letterbox for a good few minutes, not wanting to let go. But after mustering some mental strength, I did, and it was done. That particular chapter was closed.

I took a walk into town to burn the hours until I was supposed to be meeting some friends for lunch. I spent most of the time drinking coffee, reading Twitter and delivering an excessive amount of Follow Fridays as I realised I’m lucky to have so many friends right across the country and even the world, let alone just in that city.

It didn’t make it easier to say goodbye to those few special people though.

This is where those mixed feelings come in. On the one hand, leaving sucks, there’s no question of that. But on the other, there’s nothing like a crisis to discover who are the important people. To be fair, I knew already. It’s nice to have it confirmed. But heartbreaking to have to walk away from them, look back and know that they’re sad because of something you’re doing, whether or not it was your choice.

So to those few special people I said one last farewell to today, thank you for making my last day marginally more bearable. A lot more bearable, in fact. And thank you for making it hard to let go. To leave on the quiet, mourned by no-one after ten years? That would be awful. To leave knowing that people will miss you? As unpleasant as it is, it is also nice to feel appreciated and wanted.

As of now, I’m staying at my parents’ house. I am not feeling happy. Fresh start or not, tonight in particular is going to feel hideously lonely.

Hopefully tomorrow will bring more positive feelings. But it is going to take some time.

#oneaday, Day 233: Keep On Movin’

I hate moving house. I really hate moving house. And yet it’s one of those things that becomes necessary at least several times during your life. Still, I feel like I have done it more than many people, largely due to the fact I moved pretty much every year since starting university, until I ended up in this current place, which I actually lasted about two years in.

I didn’t move every year through choice in most cases. Most of the time there were extenuating circumstances which caused the move. I moved after my first year at university because I wanted to live in a house, not a hall of residence. I moved after my second year because the flat I was in was a shithole and the cheeky bastard landlord put the rent, which was already expensive, up. I moved after my third year because my housemate was leaving town because she’d finished university and I was staying on to do my teacher training. I moved after my fourth year because I was no longer a student. I moved after that year because the beautiful, lovely flat I was living in was reclaimed by its landlord for her daughter. I moved after the next year because my housemate was, again, moving and also the house we were in had damp, mould and smelled slightly of gas. I moved after the next year because I was in Aldershot and was hunting down a job back in Southampton. Also, Aldershot is a shithole. I moved after the next year because the flat I was staying in had damp and mould. Again. And the circumstances under which I am leaving this particular place have already been well documented elsewhere on this blog.

So I’m pretty tired of it. There are a bunch of things that always, always cause stress to do with moving. First of all is never having enough boxes, and ending up having to spend more on boxes than on anything else you’ve ever spent money on ever. I remember when I was younger, our local supermarket used to have a little “pen” near its cash tills with hundreds of discarded boxes that you could just take for yourself. I haven’t seen a supermarket do this for ages. It’s probably some sort of Health and Safety Hazard. What if someone gets trapped inside a box? What if it’s used to carry a bomb? What if Solid Snake is around?

So boxes have to be acquired via alternative means, be it hassling friends for them, finding them discarded in disgusting places or actually purchasing them for vast expense from packaging stores. I went for the latter option largely for convenience more than anything else, and at least it means I’ve got some decent-quality, new boxes that (hopefully) won’t fall apart when I’m lifting the bastards into a van later.

Then of course there’s the packing process itself. Bundle things into a box, seal it up and then suddenly, inevitably, something catches your eye. Something which should be in that box you just sealed up. Something which could easily fit in that box you just sealed up. But it’s not in the box. It’s sitting there on the side, mocking you quietly. So you swear profusely, bundle the thing into another box, consider writing the fact that you’ve bundled said thing into the “wrong” box onto the side of its new home, figure that nah, you’ll remember where you put it, pack it in there and then six months later when you still haven’t unpacked half your boxes and realise you really need that thing that you put in the wrong box, you discover that you can’t, in fact, remember where you put said thing because you didn’t write it on the box.

As part of the packing process, you also reach the inevitable “small bits” stage. No, this is not a euphemism. This is a reference to the stage in the packing where you’ve pretty much cleared all your bookcases and cupboards and all that is left are hundreds, thousands, of small little bits and pieces, none of which can be justifiably assigned a complete box. So you end up with at least one box marked “JUNK” which contains miscellaneous paraphernalia of such diversity that should you ever dare dip your hand into it, you’ll come out with something completely different and unrelated every time. And inevitably, there’s too much “JUNK” for one box, making you think you should have perhaps organised it a bit better, but it’s too late now.

Then you have to move said boxes and furniture into a van. That’s today’s job. And the van will be arriving shortly. So I’d probably better get on with it.