A Week Alone

 After six years living in the same flat I moved into when I first moved to Spain with poor Tom having to endure me for the entire time - including lockdown - the school year 25/26 is the year he decided he'd had enough and moved back to England. His exit mixed with a massive rent increase and not thinking I'd have the patience to get used to new flatmates again, meant I decided to find a flat of my own.
I was dreading this task - having to view different places at times that suited me and a friend who I'd have had to have taken with me who knew more than me about renting a flat - and this dread must have shown because my boss offered to talk to someone she already knew and see if they had anything available for after summer. They did. Many, actually. I was sorted. 

So, home for summer as always before returning to Pontevedra in September to settle in my new tiny flat in the heart of the old town. For me, it's perfect: modern (very rare, it seems, in Spain), right in the centre, close to work, not too big and rent is cheap enough. However, it is on the ground floor, lacking real windows so a little bit dark and a bit chilly. I have affectionately dubbed it The Cave.

With nobody to inanely ramble on to about whatever random thought that pops into my head, all of my first thoughts haven't been shared. so...

I'd never realised that rental contracts are actually all common sense. I had to ask my friend Andrea to translate it for me so that I didn't make any mistakes and I was truly baffled by how obvious it all was. I thought she was paraphrasing, but she assured me she wasn't. 

I have so many clothes that I cannot fathom how anyone can be in a relationship and have to share a wardrobe! I have a big double one made for two people and I still need more space. With that in mind, it is even more ridiculous to me that - now there is nobody who I could bump into - I never really even bother to make use of any of these clothes and spend most of my time wrapped in my Sofa Blanket.

Thinking I could move all of my stuff from Andrea's garage on the other side of town with no help was daft. Not only because oh the amount of clothes I have, but also the amount of stuff. I don't know what any of it actually is. If you asked me to say anything I actuallty own, I would be able to say clothes, a laptop and tablet, an asortment of charging cables that don't really match with any device and a half decent set of wine glasses. That's it... or so I thought. 

I chew my food an extra few times before I swallow. I must leave while looking at my door key in my hand. I ask my friend to message me in the morning if I've been feeling poorly. I have to check the hob before I leave - even if I havent used it yet that day. 
"Why?" I hear you ask. Because I am now a paranoid lunatic! Now, if I have no weekend plans and die on a Friday after work, nobody will know until Monday afternoon when I don't show up for work. A slightly dramatic example - I could have just gone with there's nobody to let me in if I forget my key, but thought it was a bit boring. 

I've been told that I talk a lot. I used to think they were exaggerating and that I was a normal-amount-talker. It seems I am not. I am a mindless chatter that must share every thought that pops into my head with whoever is in close proximity. That now cannot be done in bearable (in my opinion) doses throughout the day with the people who are too comfy on the sofa or in the middle of cooking and have to listen. Probably part of the reason I decided to start writing these blogs again.

Finally, I owe everyone I've ever lived with an apology for being certain the hair that was everywhere in the old flat wasn't all mine.
It was. 
I'm sorry.