Change is afoot. Ok maybe I’m jumping the gun but my favourite tweet of the week suggests others are as hopeful as myself in that the unelected socially inept and egotistical fool that currently calls himself the Prime Minister of the UK is on his way out.

Wanted: House share or room to let. Need to move by Friday. Please contact Mr G Brown c/o Labour Party Head Office.


Also moving is yours truly and the boyfriend. I moved to Gloucester in order to pursue the relationship so this was always on the cards but this development came via a couple of residences. First was a house share with an asylum of Lithuanians (my collective noun) who were lovely (I think) but fried everything in bacon fat and spoke very little English. I mostly smiled at them and burned scented candles in an effort to reduce the smell of grease. I then got a job and moved up in life to a bedsit just off Gloucester Park and round the corner from Cromwell Street where there’s a gap left after the digging up of patio meant little house was left*. But this pseudo independence was the flimsiest of smokescreens for the fact I spent the vast majority of my time at the boyfriend’s rather lovely pad in the Docks which came with a bathtub, a view of the Cathedral and a very comfortable bed containing the love of my life.

There was a reason for all of this pretence, partly my desire to make Gloucester my own before surrendering to a relationship but mostly out of the view that his children should be thrilled by the idea of living with me and not have some random bird that dad was shagging thrust upon them. So slowly slowly I met them, then stayed the night when they were there, then stayed most nights, then stayed all. And when we showed them the new house, enthusing about the garden and their new bedroom the thing we forgot was to clarify that I’d be living there because the eldest expressed concern to his mother that evening that he was worried he’d see less of me because the house was further away from my flat and he was worried he’d see less of me...

Reader, I cried.


So it seems we’ve done it right. We did the dating thing despite each being certain that this really was the one, the big relationship that changes your life like no other and took things as slowly as we could and everyone is happy. Well, except for the fact we’ve been living the hell of consolidating three homes (I had a house up North with lots of furniture) into one with nothing but a Luton with tail lift. I am so exhausted I want to scream and we’ve still got the upcoming weekend to move out of the boyfriend’s place in the Docks.

Still, after a rather hellish day yesterday I was feeling rather powerless. Power, as I’m sure I have said before is intrinsically linked to happiness in my opinion and as always everything is a choice. The chance to seize this hit me as I took a shortcut through a skanky wee ginnel (that I’m sure would see the stabbing of me were it not for the fact that as of the weekend I live in Hucclecote and shan’t walk that way again) past a homeless guy. Now while I buy the Big Issue, I don’t give money to those that beg. But times are a changing as I said at the beginning and I decided to take the opportunity to feel powerful.


I opened my wallet and gave him everything I had (before you think I was being flash I’d like to remind you I’ve been living in a bedsit in Gloucester and that this amounted to slightly less than a tenner – a tenner minus three hours car parking in Stroud plus a little extra loose change to be inexact). He looked a bit surprised and then I did the important thing, I looked his straight in the eye and told him what I was doing.

“Mate, I have had a really really crap afternoon and I hope this helps you have a better afternoon.”


He said he would and if tramp stereotypes and what looked very much like meth addict scabs* are anything to go by then I hope he had an epic one.

 After all I’m ridiculously fortunate. After cleaning for an hour and a half the bedsit sparkled and my landlord handed over £300 in cash as my returned deposit. The boyfriend then drove me to our new three bedroomed home with a babbling brook at the end of the garden (watch this space for flying insect ranting this summer) and en route back to his place (where until Saturday, the bed still lives) when I bemoaned the fact that I’d forgotten to pick up a bottle of wine, called into a supermarket to buy me pink fizz. So I’m tired from moving my beautiful furniture? Woe is spoilt girl! I drank cava and ate crisps then watched Black Books as encouragement (I am frighteningly like Bernard Black and am currently fantasising about owning a bookshop and spending my days drinking wine). My life is fantastic!

So I hope that Gordy has a good move and realises that tidying up the old life as one moves on can be a good thing. Just as the house share and the bedsit were never really my home, nor was Number 10 truly his. Rather, Gordy was a squatter, someone who moved into an opportunity before being moved on by someone who had a rightful claim.

It’s tough and challenging and I wish him every luck. As someone moving herself this week, I feel for him but really, it’s time for change, 

* Fred West reference

** An opinion obtained from watching Nip/Tuck



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