In defence of the Old Flat

I moaned about our old flat a lot. Any friend will tell you that I was gagging to move and my laptop keyboard will tell you that the ‘r’ ‘i’ ‘g’ ‘h’ ’t’ ‘m’ ‘o’ ‘v’ ‘e’ keys are now weak and faded. 

The flat was a tiny two-bed for what was essentially four people including our flatmate’s girlfriend. It was part of a very old building that had a lot wrong with it - it was falling apart - and as lovely as our landlady was, she was scatty, hard to get hold of and slightly, just ever so slightly, useless. 

The two guys, friends from uni, moved up to London and straight into this flat in the summer of 2013. Ryan and I had our first date the few weeks after he moved in (we went to London Zoo - I know, solid first date). Compared to the prices now, it was incredibly cheap for a two-bed flat in Zone 4, right next to a commuter station, and the landlady never increased the rent over the four years, not even when I moved in in November 2015. We had a park at the bottom of our road, didn’t have to pay for water, and the four of us got on wonderfully. 

Swings and roundabouts, you see. 

We could have stayed for a bit longer. We could have stuck it out. But our gut feeling told us to move on, up, and out, so we did. Ryan and I have moved to a beautiful, nearly-brand-new one-bed flat with a balcony, dishwasher, tumble dryer AND CARPETED BEDROOM just 15 minutes away from our old place. And it feels right. It already feels like home. 

But I’m not done talking about our old flat.

On securely falling back into the pit

Slipping back into a depressive period when you’ve been so stable for a good few years is like receiving a letter to warn you of your fate and then descending into hell with a parachute. 

It’s gentle, expected, and eerie. You know this place, you recognise these feelings, and you’re not so scared and alone as you were before. 

If I wasn’t depressed, I’d be frustrated that I am, once again, depressed. I’d be angry and confused as to why I’ve found myself back being hopeless and helpless after doing so well for so long. But I’m depressed, so I’m not feeling that at all. I’m just looking at those feelings having a strop over the other side of room and thinking, “I can’t be arsed to feel that tbh, it’s too much effort and I just don’t care.”

Bath, England (July 2016)

I had the idea of visiting Bath after I went to Bristol and realised it was down the road. If it wasn’t for lack of time, I probably would have nagged Ryan to drive us for the day but now I’m glad we dedicated a whole break to the place, because it’s bloody beautiful. 

We wanted to stay in a B&B for this break, but I didn’t know where to find good B&Bs so, like any normal person, I Googled ‘best B&Bs bath’ and was offered an array. Lord, there are a lot of B&Bs in Bath. Our stipulations were ‘parking’ and ‘near to city centre’ and ‘free WiFi’, obviously, and after much trawling I stumbled upon Pulteney House. 

Guys, they have pet rabbits. I was SOLD.