first, the essentials. I am now installed in "my own place" that is essentially one of those horribly de classe back-portion-of the-house joints that abound in CR Park.
i've been concretely hankering after this since september 04 and dreaming of it since I was 15 (or was it 13? the amoebic years are so hard to keep track of) when I drew a fully functional one room flat on graph paper.
However there are practicalities. By and by I realise how inconvenient it is to shit in a bathroom without a sink, wash dishes in kitchen with a sink but without running water and smile charmingly at the brat of the household who steals my phone when my back is turned.
On the upside I have peace, no guilt-wrenching moments, and time to read without interruptions to "discuss my day." Thus I have swimingly progressed though 'Paperweight,'a collection of essays, by Stephen Fry, which compares favourably to 'Moab Is My Washpot,' his frankly frank autobiography. Why? Because while I appreciate the fact that it is Fry's demons that inspire his best writing (The Liar), I'd rather not have front row seats to watch him mucking about with them. I am content with the shawdowy twin I meet in his fiction that draws the ever-so-slight veil over his vulnerabilities, his inadequacies and his guilt for being the archtypal outsider on the inside.