When I was growing up we moved a lot.
We never had a real home or time to settle and grow roots. My memories of home are vague snippets of strange places with different people sometimes I doubt if they are real or imagined.
I never want to go abroad. It was never my dream. I was happy where I was.
When I was 17 I found myself in Europe. What a strange place. I can’t get used to the food and the weather. I came from the land of endless summer. Here, it is mostly cold, the trees bare and looking like Blair Witch Project.
For the first time I stayed longer in one place, twenty years.
Eleven years ago, I moved again. This time in an apartment. After 3 years I moved once more to a terraced town house. I stayed there for another three years before I settled in a six bedroom Edwardian house in the country. It took me five years to move to a suburban villa where I am currently living.
Last week I started looking for houses. I have appointments to view some of them this weekend. Yesterday I saw two and was disappointed.
I guess, I’m moving again.