Flat Out?

There’s an undulating discomfort in the bottom of my belly, and it’s not the mung bean soup, it’s the thought I will have to give up my lovely flat.
‘It’s only a building.’ says George.
‘Don’t get so attached.’ says Monica.
It’s time to re-group, move on, take stock.’ says Roberto.
‘You’ll be in your lovely cottage with Jim,’ says Marie.
‘But the man who is tired of London is tired of life.’ say Ben.
So what’s my problem then? If it is time to move on, change, give up the ghost, look to the future?
There’s always Grouchos to stay in if I need to be in London. There’s also friends, family and a host of boutique hotels that will be willing to take my nightly rate. BUT I love my mad flat and anyway it’s not the giving up of the apartment that hurts but the reality of the move. Seven years of books, cd’s, furniture, paintings, tables, chairs, bedding, weights – yes weights – shoes, clothes, toiletries and memories.
If you are what you think then if I keep thinking that the flat will remain in my life will it?
If it’s time to move on, how will I know?
At what point is holding on giving up?

I meditated in the sun this morning. I kept shifiting my body to stay in the shaft of light that was coming into the room.
I have a series of things that go round in my head but this morning I was content to think only of one mantra. Even with ‘Broadcasting House’ spilling under the door from our bedroom, I found real peace in the orange light.
Then I made soup for today, soup for tomorrow, soup for Jim and my siddha paste to slap onto my belly. I’ve filled up a thermos flask with this evenings offering. Tomorrow I need to make another concoction then it’s off to London Town for four days.
I am going to London to have a treatment from my acupuncturist, sort my clothes for Costa Rica, collect B’s clothes for Costa Rica, meet with female friends, male collegaues and a professional organisation who may want me to work for them, and then head home Thursday evening to prepare for our trip to Central America.
Yes they had a 5.9 earthquake yesterday, my German friend called from Hamburg, she just loves a bit of Schadenfreude, she couldn’t wait to tell me. I had already had an astroolger telling me to beware of food poisoning, we’re going to officially the happiest place on earth not an abattoir.
Then another friend called up and asked where we going on holiday.
‘Costa Rica’ I said.
‘How long for’? she asked.
‘Three weeks’ I said shyly.
‘Blimey that’s a long time.’ she said tartly. ‘What will you do?’
I didn’t dignify her with an answer as we are staying next to the jungle, round the bend from The Cloud Forest and up the road from volcanoes.
‘Well.’ I said defensively, ‘The journey is very long and we’ll need a week to recover before we really settle down to relaxing.’
‘How long is the journey?’ she queried
‘Ten hours to Huston, a five hour wait then another three hours.’ I said knowledgably.
‘How long’ she shrieked ‘Why so long? That’s a funny way round isn’t it?’
‘That’s the best way to get there, and that’s how long it takes.’ I said trying not to sound irritated.
There was a bit of a silence then she started to laugh.
‘Where are you going?’ She asked again.
‘Costa Rica.’ I said losing the will to live.
‘When you said Costa’ she dribbled, ‘I thought you meant somewhere in Spain, the Costa Brava, Costa Del Sol, Costa Packet…’
‘No, this is the Costa that’s underneath Nicaragua, round the corner form the Panama and as far away from Benidorm as you can get…’
‘How dim am I?’ she spluttered.
‘Not dim.’ I said. ‘Just audiologically challenged.’
We both started laughing uncontrollably – ‘Stress relief.’ she spluttered.
Being out of the loop since September 16th means I am edgy, nervous, unconfident, and utterly wimpy. Like a clerk who has secretly been dismissed from his desk I have an empty briefcase filled with a thermos of soup and a clear diary. I do, however, intend leaving my doubts at Heathrow, my shock in Liberia and my weariness on Samara beach. When I get back in November I will be ready to take IT all on, whatever IT is, including the flat. By which time the decision will have been made for me either by the bank, the landlord or a new venture.
Whatever happens I will enjoy the next four days as if they are my last, quite literally…