Hi there friends!
So, how do you like this picture of my ‘wardrobe’ on the floor of The Man’s bedroom?
This is basically what my life has looked like since I got back from Argentina. It’s like a casserole made of clothing. It’s like the muck heap at my Mum’s stables. (Actually, that’s balls. My mum’s muck heap is significantly more tidy and organised than this rotten mess.)
Most of my friends presume that I live in a state of chaos and disorder. This, I imagine, is because they have identified the chaos and disorder that exists in my head and have then – quite understandably – made the assumption that I carry this policy into my habitat.
Not so, actually. As any previous housemates will attest, I am depressingly anal when it comes to matters of the home. I like my abode to be tidy, serene and – I am not ashamed to admit it – a little bit gorgeous. WHEN THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN I BECOME VERY CROSS AND I START TALKING IN ANGRY CAPITALS. I lived many years in a big shared house in my twenties and I was a chronic shitty note-leaver. The rage I felt when I returned from a fourteen-hour shocker at work to the sight of a half-eaten pork pie on the sofa was unimaginable. (I’d eat the remaining pork pie, obv, but I’d leave a stinking note about it like any self-respecting hypocrite.)
So my current home – a bewildering mess in the corner of The Man’s bedroom – is, as I’m sure you can imagine, a source of great frustration to me.
Between you and me, friends, I’m done with itinerant roaming. I’ve had it with a wardrobe-less life. I want to nest. To have a home. A room with a view. Feck it, just any sort of room would do. An annex. A cleaning cupboard. Larder. Bog. Just somewhere that is mine.
And so you may be forgiven for throwing your hands in the air and yelling “I can’t take any more of that bloody Robinson girl” when I tell you that I am about to make this situation ten times worse by setting back off to South America on Friday.
I arrived in Buenos Aires in June last year, ready to commence my elderly gap year and write me some novels. But after two weeks I became so enamoured with steak, tango and red wine that I went a bit mad and organised to extend my one year into an eighteen month megabeast. I thought I’d come back to the UK for June to reassure my nearest and dearest that I exist, eat some LOVELY HEALTHY FOOD (it is almost impossible to describe I have missed the humble boxed salad) and do critical work stuff before disappearing off again.
All of that has happened and I am about to go again. The only thing that has changed is that, er, The Man is coming with me. Did you hear that, readers? That was notoriously single Lucy Robinson casually throwing into conversation the fact that she is about go to travelling with a man. A man with whom she is having a relationship, moreover. That wasn’t part of the bleeding plan was it! Eh?
Funnily enough though, I don’t think it’s too soon. Obviously you will be permitted to point and laugh if I am proved wrong (although ideally please don’t) but it feels nice and perfectly right that as I charge around throwing inappropriate clothes into my rucksack, he is charging around throwing highly appropriate clothes into his. “We need to sit down and split up our first aid kit so we’re not doubling up,” he informed me earlier. When I replied that my travelling first aid kit normally comprised illegally-procured sleeping pills and a couple of furry berroccas, he didn’t look wildly impressed. He’s better at travelling than I am.
No, I can’t lie. I’m actually very happy and excited, lack of bedroom/wardrobe excepted.
Things with me and The Man have been going pretty well, truth be told. He is super ace and the poor thing is still suffering the misapprehension that I am too. Hopefully I will be able to fool him for a little while longer before I contract another termite infestation, or recommence shaming myself with other travellers.… or indeed expelling the universe at high speed from my derriere.
I do kind of think, though, that if he can tolerate this horrendous episode then we are probably going to be ok.
I must go. I will update you with our travel plans soon – I am sure you are on the edge of your seat – but right now I have a phone appointment with a chap named Booty who is going to explain to me why his company will not pay back the money they owe me.
I love the idea of making a friend called Booty.