of packing boxes... which I hate

When my boyfriend and I met I was living with a roommate in a beautiful large Town House. It was my roommate who suggested / invited my boyfriend to move in with us. It was a crazy and intimidating situation considering that the boyfriend and I had only been together for 4 months at the time and the dynamics of all three of us living together was scary. And after much consideration and debate it was decided that he would move in with us and another year later it’s all worked out wonderfully.

Of course people change. And the last year has been one of great change and shift. We have had a few issues here and there. Now and again something crops up and there is a disagreement amongst the three of us. The last two months have been particularly tough. There have been a few more arguments. A few more outbursts. And slowly I started hating home. I did not feel comfortable anymore. I felt like I had no space.

This weekend the boyfriend and I went and looked at a new home. We fell in love with the space. We still have a safe secure inside, lock up parking. We still have our own private garden (this is huge for me) – we are still in the same area, central. Close to the beach. Just outside the city. And I am in my element.

It worked well while it lasted all of us together, and now my boyfriend and I get to start doing things our own way. In our own space. And I think it’s bloody marvellous.

I just hate packing and now I need to get some boxes…




(ps, for those who follow my blog… the new place happens to be the apartment that “the friend” lives in, he is moving… no one can say this was not meant to be, it all just seems to fit together perfectly)