The flat I’ve been ogling over the last few weeks is finally mine. It’s on the ground floor with a patch of grass outside and 105 square metres spread out over a single floor inside. Don’t think I’ll be growing much stuff out there in the microscopic garden, but it’s nice as a suspension of disbelief. Disbelief that you are in fact not living in the bottom corner of a block of flats with neighbours on three sides.
Hope they don’t become too grumpy when I crank up some of that Judas Priest vinyl I finally will have the ability to play loud. Maybe I’ll start off with some soothing Vivaldi just to get them calmed down and to score some easy points. After a couple of weeks they’ll be treated with some good old K.K. Downing riffwork.
It’s got a wheelchair ramp too, the flat. That’s definitely something I need. You can only carry a six year old down from and up to the third floor so many times, like I did for nearly two years now. According to the previous owner, the ramp was put there by an old woman who recently died. Thank you m’am, whoever you were. Oh, and there’s a separate bedroom for the small people now.
So, how does one break in a new house? A party? If anyone Scandinavian (or anyone else for that matter) is reading this, let’s hear if a really small noder meet in September fits anyone’s schedule. I unbusyfied my life substantially a while back, but that might not be the case for you, so speak up.
Barbecue? We can do that. Drinking? We can do that. Laughing? Maybe. Watch the sun set from the hill behind me? If you want to.
I have a mortgage again, and I will need to invest in a very cheap lawnmower soon. Not to mention a washing machine, a stove, a bookshelf and some chair arrangement I can do my late night outside philosophery and E2 blabbing in. In some cultures that’s sort of like growing up.
And of course, I’ll be getting a decent place to hang the picture SharQ made me.