Last week, annoyed that my landlord had ripped out the tiles in the shower without notice, because of a leak, and rendering it useless (it still isn't fixed) I gave notice on my flat. So after four years in South Kensington, I'm moving on. Now, I've got to find a place to live. I've never lived any further east than South Kensington (which isn't east at all) so I'm thinking Clerkenwell, or the newly fashionable Borough, home of the glorious weekend food market. Something more urban, something bigger, something new.
A month ago, exactly, I decided I needed to face up to some delusions, scatter some fantasies and find a way forward that wasn't mired in 'what ifs' and 'maybes' and 'if onlys'. So I confronted T. about my feelings for him and in the process broke my own heart. I knew the probable outcome. Despite the many (and non-imaginary) signs that we were developing an intimacy, I had to face up to the fact that even I couldn't imagine us actually being together. So ends a two-year torch-bearing marathon. I've sung the sad songs, and cried into my beer and railed against the fates, but in truth I'm proud of myself for moving on and giving myself some room to be real.
T. handled it graciously (which is in turn annoying and gratifying) and once I'm over the resentment of finally having met someone handsome, smart and so bloody seemingly compatible but for naught, we'll continue to be great friends. In the meantime, I'm free and single boys so, bring it on. Or not. For the good news is I've decided to stop being selfish and let someone else break my heart next time.
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