Moving

I'm still getting used to my new place. It's very quiet which is a little disconcerting after spending years surrounded by neighbours who whisper in screams and endless construction work. I swear that my old place was the contractor's answer to the Bermuda Triangle, an area which possesses an unholy power, which in our case meant that they just simply could not pass by without drilling at least one hole in the area.

Electricity and phone companies, natural gas providers, paving contractors, sewage installers, and builders of every shade were drawn to it like a moth to a flame. After a couple of weeks they'd once again feel an unfathomable urge to come back, preferable with a pneumatic drill and commune with the earth. Like Richard Dreyfuss's character in Close Encounters of the Third Kind all they know is that they have to be there.

I've got the flat looking like a real home with books on shelves and clothes in wardrobes rather than strewn across the floor. Starting to feel like I belong there.