My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.
It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By
that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the
taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings
are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,
or skittering noises in the walls.
When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the
windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An
occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited
from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against
such furious tumult.
There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view
is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain
any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the
way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.
It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I
found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that
there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the
room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating
the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.
The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate
and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some
time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are
beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.
I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each
Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep
of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the
floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play
full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the
insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the
windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen
to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter
from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.
I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,
but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.
In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others
to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own
demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but
I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.
