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copyright ©1999-2002 |
I was six years old the first time I felt the freedom of my own home. On a dull rainy day, with the help of some old bedspreads and a few towels, I built my own little house under the kitchen table. I furnished it with sofa cushions and filled it with books and supplies. I added a big door and put up a sign to say that visitors were by invitation only. I didn’t want anyone butting in, disturbing my peace. It was heaven to me since I had never even had a bedroom of my own. Sadly my little room had to be dismantled far too soon — the table was needed for dinner — but for many years to come I dreamt about a place of my own. It was a long time until I actually got a whole apartment though. I suffered through years of living at home with quarrelsome sisters, then flatmates both good and bad. Finally, I took control of my life and moved into a place by myself. Scary, exhilarating and very grown up: I would now sink or swim on my own. This was it, pure freedom. I could decorate it with all the things I loved without ever having to begrudgingly accommodate someone’s collection of cat ornaments or religious icons. I could crank up the stereo and sing at the top of my lungs or vacuum in my underwear. I could spend as long as I liked in the shower or take a bath in the middle of the night. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, without having to face laughter or raised eyebrows. But when the euphoria died down some cold hard facts came a-knocking. It’s an undeniable truth that it costs a lot more to live alone than to share. Unlike that first little house under the table, this flat came with a big, ugly rent bill. The flat might have been all mine, but so was the rent. And along with the killer rent came some brutal utility bills. What I found out was that often, there isn’t much difference in the cost of keeping an apartment running for one person versus two -- so it’s tough when you don’t have anyone to split those utilities.
---------------------------> lounge . nourish . host . laze . home. |