Flashback: November 2014
‘Roots’ is a scary word. I don’t mean that in a 1977 miniseries’ depiction of African slavery kind-of-way starring the chap from Star Trek The Next Generation.
In this instance I haven’t found Kunta Kinte, but I did find a nice Englishman. Although I do have far less enthusiasm than James Earl Jones, and there’s no over-the-top 70’s music score playing in the background.
I’ve just bought a house 3 blocks from my rental and I’m moving in with Sir English. If Gweneth Paltrow were here she’d be inventing words for me like ‘move-in mergers’ and I’d have to tell her to please stop and “Go fix me some macrobiotic soba noodle salad, and while you’re at it grab the bottle of Grey Goose Vodka from the cupboard because we be goin’ on a bender.” Buying a house is a huge deal in which a certain sense of mature responsibility is required. As is living with someone you’re in a relationship with. It’s a compromise, and in my case it’s refraining from any personal grossness in the company of anyone other than my canine companions, not conjuring homicidal mania if there is a drop of pee (that isn’t mine) on the rim of the toilet bowl, and holding my tongue over the 500 tea-lights Sir English has seemed to have acquired – that will never get lit in either of our lifetimes. Unless of course we invite Sting and his mates over for a house warming and a music video shoot.
However I must admit my sense of logic and spirit of compromise did almost waiver momentarily. The conversation/confession in question took place at ‘The Lad Cave’ aka. Sir English’s former abode. A place where stains on various surfaces have taken an oath of secrecy and mystery particles trapped in the cracks of the wood flooring could keep CSI Analysis Officers in overtime for decades. I glared in disbelief at the peeling paint and crumbling plaster barely concealed behind a wooden chest, then turned to face him standing in the bedroom doorway…
Me: I’m sorry.
Sir English: It’s ok, I’ll just move this stuff out of the way so you can vacuum this spot.
Me: No that’s not it… I am sorry for what I am thinking.
Sir English: What?
Me: If I was something like a supernatural entity with supreme control over the universe and real ‘superpowers’ , I’d tell you you’ve got 30 minutes to box all your most worldly posessions worth saving, then I’d throw something down from the heavens like a lightning bolt and burn this place to the ground.
Sir English: Oh.
However despite everything, I was still counting my blessings as he gave me free reign to decorate our new home as I wished, while renting his flat to a friend for the time being, thus not moving all of his things. Notably he wouldn’t be taking along his pine particleboard furnishings or this literal monstrocity I fondly refer to as ‘The Molesting Hand-Chair’…
Thus saving me a rotator cuff injury from hauling it to a vacant lot and a few pounds on the purchase of a can of gasoline…
And a gal’s really gotta appreciate that kind of consideration.