Ever since I can remember I have wanted a house. My sister and I used to fall asleep describing to each other how ever room of our dream home would be decorated. My tastes, I hope, have improved since then: I distinctly remember describing a room that was half green and half pink with an imposing four poster bed. Now I dream of a free standing bath in the most enormous bathroom. Theroe are French doors leading to a balcony and....
Maybe I have ridiculous bathroom aspirations but my ideal home has become alot more modest; the floor plan (which I used to draw myself) has shrunk from depicting a palace big enough to house not just me but my sisters, cousins and any family we may have, to a 2 or 3 bedroom flat in London. I wouldn't, of course, turn my nose up at a brightly painted townhouse with iron railings out front if it was offered.
Now, instead of pretending to be an architect and drawing up very over complicated residences for myself, I play the estate agent game. You look in the shop window and pick the place you'll buy when your numbers come up. Sometimes, when I've bought a lottery ticket, I even do this on the Internet, just so I'm prepared. Then there's endless 'Location, Location,' 'Grand Design,' 'Escape to the Country' programmes. My flat mate calls it property porn.
Said flat mate, who shares this property porn addiction, is currently in the process of buying her first flat. I have never been more jealous in my life. Just think of all the Ikea joy that awaits her. The antique shops and EBay. The Dulux samples. The kitchen shops, photo printing, curtain sewing...ah, to be Kirsty Alsopp!
My house would be sooooo beautiful. Surely I deserve one, don't I?
The trouble with having this as an aspiration is it seems too unattainable. It's easy to save for travelling or a new laptop. You just take food from work and walk everywhere. A deposit though! For a girl who works in a cafe and a shop and spends her money on trips to India and replacing her constantly malfunctioning laptop, it's just impossible.
But I have dreams that begin with my house. Dreams that involve a sunny office with a typewriter, a new found ability to cook (it would be such a waste of a fridge if I didn't learn), a piano.
Instead, I must content myself with trying to fill my empty room. On the cards is a desk, some drawers, many pictures. At the moment it is like a cell in there. I've hung my jewellery on the wall to make it look less bare. Everyone who sees the room is shocked. Sigh. That's what you get for moving house on the train. Daddy!!! Please bring me some more stuff.
This does mean though that I can get a little but excited at decorating this small space so I can yearn a little less for dream house until I miraculously save a deposit. Likely?
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