I hadn’t realised it until today, but the end really is nigh. The end of my life in Reading, that is.
For the last three years I have whined about Reading – about how soulless it is, how spiritless. Commuterville and then some. But the truth is that although I know no one here, it is convenient. I live on the banks of the Kennet, 10 minutes’ walk from Tescos, 10 mins from the train station, 10 mins from the shops. When I move back to Dorset, I shan’t be able to walk anywhere useful at all. Ten minutes will see me either at the top of a hill, or in a wood.
Thing is, when I made the decision to move back to Dorset, the move was itself still at some comfortable time in the future. It wasn’t until my Mum said yesterday that it’s only two weeks away that I realised how fast time as passed, how close that future is to being the present. Getting off the train today I realised that that was the last time I’ll catch the train up from Bournemouth. Mum won’t be coming up here again with Melissa, my niece. Soon I won’t be looking out for Black Duck on the river as I walk into town.
In two weeks, everything I own will be back in my parents’ house. I will be living again in the arse end of nowhere. A very pretty arse end, but nevertheless, I shall be cut off from civilisation once more, totally dependant on my parents for transport and on the internet for my social life. OK, so that last point isn’t so far removed from how my life’s panned out over the last 18 months, but still. The thought doesn’t much fill me with enthusiasm.
Last time I was in Dorset I went for a few months and ended up stuck there for a year and a half. I swear, that will not happen this time. I will not allow myself to fall into that trap. I’m not quite sure what I will do, but I know it will involve trying very hard to get some sort of life back.
Meantime, I better shift my arse and start packing. I have two weeks to reduce a two bedroom maisonette into a pile of boxes. Eek.
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