Is the Grass Greener?

The grass can easily seem greener on the other side. Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t. And worst of all sometimes you get something you want and realise that it’s not what you wanted at all. 

Take, for example, my coveting the huge cushions plopped along the stairs in the Wellcome Collection Reading Room. The cushions looked so comfortable but there were already too many bums-on-cushions for my Londoner’s sense of personal space. I glanced over a few times to see if they would free up, but they didn’t. I considered staring someone out until they left but decided against it. 

So, this morning, I stopped by early. I was caffeinated, I had an essay to read, I was ready. I was the first one there and I took my time to choose the right spot. I plumped up the cushions, arranged them just right and down I sat. 

Was it comfy? Was it heck. 

Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

I fussed with the cushions and rearranged them for so long that I surprised myself. I normally apologise if someone bumps into me on the bus, so what in the hell was I doing rearranging cushions in full view of others whilst, gasping, standing up. I sat back down and thought to myself, ‘I’ve got to make a good go of this after this much fuss.’ And so I sat back down and tried my best to look comfortable.

It turns out that my bum is more sizeable than the depth of a step in the staircase to the mezzanine floor of the Wellcome Collection Reading Room. It also turns out that it is difficult to portray a calm but studious look on your face when you have to wedge a foot onto a stair in order to prompt yourself sliding down a staircase. Also, and this one is a bit left field, it is also tricky to adopt a position that locks you in without crossing your legs. 

Photo by Tanja Heffner on Unsplash

This anti leg crossing policy has been a concern for about five and a half days as I’ve seen what I think could be the beginning of varicose veins. I blame turning 30 for this. And smartphones, which keep me on the loo for longer than before and therefore leave me with longer to notice the veins on my legs. 

So, those people who I’d envied, the ones that were seemingly sitting so comfortably on the stairs; were they frauds? Or did they have different bottom dimensions to me? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I stood in a puddle on the way home. I have a feeling that was karma for the bin juice.

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House Prices and Bin Juice

It was still dark outside but I could sense there was a little light coming from the kitchen. I was in that half-and-half state cocooned between sleep and the waking world. ‘Oh, fuck.’ in a sharp whisper. Then followed ‘For fuck’s sake’ in an increasingly less convincing whisper. With ‘Fuck you.’ as the crescendo. It gave me a little jolt, a reminder of the say-it-as-you-see-it way of life that I enjoy. It wasn’t directed to me and it made me smile as I knew what it meant. 

Photo by Arzu Cengiz on Unsplash

It was before 6am and my partner was diligently completing the twice weekly task of taking the bin out. He’d then go to the gym or hop back into bed for another hour’s sleep. As I heard him this morning I almost laughed. I knew what had happened; the bin liner had split and bin juices rained over his familiar task. I could’ve helped but I didn’t. I chuckled to myself and instantly went back to sleep, finding pleasure in just how cosy I was.

I could hear him easily, you see, as we live in a studio flat. If you’re not a big city dweller then this home life probably seems like anathema to you. But there’s no privacy? Don’t you get on each others’ nerves? Yes, probably, but that could happen anywhere. The housing market is insane, money is finite and we live on an island: you have to make choices. 

There are things I would change, the first being another room or two. I’ve got visions of a music room where my partner can play and I can listen. And even a baby grand piano in a spacious living room, with the notes bouncing off the high ceilings. I have developed a deep respect for doors in the five years that we’ve only had two in our flat. 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

But, you know, we’re lucky. We have a home of our own, with our name on the lease, in an area that feels familiar. There is newness and wonder popping up all over. And also ludicrous money-pits of objects on sale that I can only presume are a joke; they make me laugh. I choose to enjoy what we have. It’s ours and we chose it. We don’t have everything but I don’t give too much of a fuck.