I rent my house. Sometimes this frustrates me a lot. Sometimes I feel demoralised that I haven't been dedicated enough to save and be sensible and put down a deposit and buy somewhere. It's not like I don't earn enough.
Sometimes though, I like renting. This week my landlady has paid for decorators to come in and give all the rooms a flesh lick of paint. The house smells all emulsiony and new.
I used to share my lovely, small terraced house in Chapel Allerton, about three miles north of Leeds city centre, with my ex-girlfriend. It was our home. She moved out when things became far too much for us both, in November. Since then, it has been my house again (as it was before we met).
Most of her things went when she did, although there were the inevitable forgotten bits and pieces. Reminders. Hard, sad reminders.
One of the last reminders has just been painted over. The funny stain on the bathroom wall after a hair-dye "incident" is no more.
I miss her every single day, but I'm excited about the blank canvas a part of my life has become.
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