In a recent walk around Exmouth Market, I found myself perusing the shelves of a lovely bookstore in the area. A little book caught my eye. It is a tongue-in-cheek collection of Tweets sent out by fellow people who have faced different challenges in their daily activities. In the words of Kim Kardashian, “the struggle is real”. 🙂
Here is my favourite challenge. It simply cracks me up.
More money does not buy happiness. More things do not create more meaning. As I find myself at a point where my daily needs, wants, and desires are met, I find myself dissatisfied. Surely there is more to the daily existence beyond the commute, the meetings, the projects, the phone conversations with family and friends, the cooked dinners. I wonder what an existence where I would be doing something different every day would be like. Or where I would be seeing a different place every day. Or where I would be meeting a new person every day.
I am thinking that in our society and daily routines we do not have the freedom of doing something different every day, seeing something different every day, meeting someone different every day.
Nevertheless, I wonder what that kind of life would look like in an attempt to shake things up. It feels like there is a void around that I need to fill.
There is a lot of coffee manifesting itself in my life at the moment, be that in my personal life, where I seem to have come to a point where I drink coffee instead of water, be that in my professional life, where I look after a nice little coffee brand.
I am a coffee lover anyway, I prefer my cups to be Americano, most recently Coconut Flat Whites, and as a rule of thumb soya or almond Lattes with a touch of nutmeg on top. Revised after my trip to Florence: double espressos are my new Americano.
I haven’t yet visited the Coffee Festival in Brick Lane. I feel like punching myself for not having got there so far just to stick my nose in a bag full of freshly ground coffee and take it all in.
Here is a marvelous thought: God has probably made water from coffee (not the other way around). Discuss.
Contrary to last week, when I spent Saturday and Sunday at friends’, I managed to spend the past couple of days by myself at mine’s. OK, the place is not actually mine, it is a rental; nevertheless, I have been living here for about a year and a half and it is to all intents and purposes the place that I call “home” and that holds together all my earthly possessions (at least the ones I have in London).
If anything, the past few days have been a reminder of how much I enjoy and need to be by myself to gather my thoughts, recharge and be. No harm there, no shame in it.
I have been spending the last couple of days at my friends’ in Canada Water, a blessed part of London, one stop away from Canary Wharf and promptly serviced by the Jubilee Line. Truly – a reason for jubilation. You could be dealing with the Metropolitan instead. (I don’t deal with the Metropolitan line but other unfortunate commuters in London do).
It has enabled me to cement some convictions with regards to my future home, which I will pen here – so that I hold on to them when I finally have my own place and don’t kill it with other shenanigans.
- Minimalize all my possessions before going into my new home.
- Choose all white monochromatic interior design or a two-tone one at most (in which case, pick white for walls and furniture and warm brown for floors).
- The home needs to look and make me feel like I am living in a concept hotel. Which is why I plan to buy and ‘live’ in a white bathrobe every day, especially at the weekend.
- The home needs to be well aired, which is why I will open all the windows all the time, except when I sleep so that I don’t wake up with puffy eyes. And also don’t get robbed. Or worse.
- In order to enable my relaxation (after a hard week at work), a variety of music and sounds will be played in the background. At the moment of writing, I am sitting at the dining room table with forest sounds playing.
- In order to perfect the concept hotel experience – and finally wake me up after spending the Saturday recovering from a week at work, the home will be equipped with a Nespresso machine. At the push of a button, the machine will deliver several ounces of pure joy (what else?), which will fill me with great ideas for what to do the rest of my weekend.
To the rest of the world, it may be a tiny house. To me, it is my castle.
It is a small house in the country, where my grandparents lived and where I was brought up nearing the age of five. In front of the house, there is a small garden of daffodils, red and yellow tulips, roses, and a vineyard.
On the right, there used to be a handful of locust trees and a lime tree. They smelled splendid in spring when they were all in bloom.
Losing is bad enough. Losing everything or having it taken from you is like going to bed in the evening and covering yourself with a comfortable duvet, dreaming of a good night’s sleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night to the harrowing sounds of a tornado that has snatched the four walls from around you and the house from underneath you. You wake up on a pile of rubble watching the remains of your home blown in the wind.
Should you breathe? Should you check if you’re ok? Should you run after what’s been blown up and try to save at least some precious items? Should you even allow yourself to cry? Or should you make a plan to pull it back together? First.
It’s a “real” shitty feeling, as they say back in New York.