nest

We bought a flat 2 months ago. Or rather, as I am fond of saying - the bank bought a flat and charges us a pretty high interest rate to live in it. Obviously, after about a year of pining for a home of my own, it hasn't really sunk in yet. And how much can it ever sink in? A 92 year leasehold means nothing really, in the quicksand of time and property ownership in England.

It's a charming new nest; it has stained glass windows and wood floors. Yesterday I captured the resident bear in an introspective mood on the new sofa, against the backdrop of the old fireplace, on the mobile phone camera. Most picturesque and satisfying really.

Life goes on. Just this morning I was trying to find something wrong, really seriously wrong with my world, considering war, famine, abject poverty, disability and hate, elsewhere. But no, it all feels pretty OK right now. There, I probably shouldn't have said it. If I were writing my story, this is the point where I would consider a 'happily ever after', or a 5 year (or 19 year) jump into the future, for sequels or an epilogue, if you will.

I don't want to, at all. But I could die now and not have too many regrets. And all because I have a nest to bring twigs back to. How materialistic.