Six months ago, while on a weekend trip to Martin’s hometown of Wigan, he asked me a question. We were enjoying our main course on a meal out with a bottle of red wine, when he took my hand and said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something”. We had been dating for almost 10 months, and our relationship was going very well. We had said our ‘I love yous’ over and over again, and we both really meant it. At this point, I knew his question would not be the ‘big one’, so I nodded my head and waited for whatever was coming next. He said that he really enjoyed spending time with me and that when Sunday came around and I made the journey back to my side of London he missed me a lot and was wanting to know if I would like to move in with him.
It didn’t come as a surprise, but it felt very sudden. I said that I would love to, but that we both needed some time. I felt as though I had just gotten myself into a pleasant routine, having moved into my current accommodation (which I adored) less than a year ago. My new work contract had started just 3 months prior and for the first time since moving to London, I felt settled, and happy, and more than reluctant to inviting change into my life (especially a new daily commute which would involve a TRAIN and a tube journey and getting up 20 minutes earlier than my usual 5:55 a.m. wake up time). So we decided to give it a couple months.
But Autumn* quickly came and it still felt too soon. So I proposed the new year instead. This would give Martin time to clear out the spare room, and his wardrobe and make space for me in his home and it would give me time to emotionally let go of my large (always warm) room, with space for all of my shoes, and my clothes, with a little tv by my bed, which was my companion on so many lazy Saturday mornings (and afternoons and evenings).
2011 rolled around.
Martin began the arduous task of sifting through 10 years worth of accumulated paperwork, books, magazines, clothing, shoes, etc. Last Tuesday I gave my landlord notice that I would be moving out (in 5 weeks).
OMG! We’re actually shacking up for reals. Please pass me a paper bag. Like, now!
Don’t worry, I’m only kidding…
*I really mean Fall