Moving House and a Sandwich

A peculiar smell. A wrinkling of the nose. A feeling of anxiety. It's always fresh, that moment, when you notice you've walked in shit. No matter where it begins, it normally ends with the shoe. For me, though, it was to end the following day, when I became a sandwich.

It was blistering sunshine, I had forgotten last night's doggy business under my heel like the discarded oats of yesterday's porridge, and everything was ship shape. But not for long. On my way to buy picture hooks from the pound shop it all came rushing back, onto my shiny baldness. That's right, a direct strike from above. I can see the seagull pulling up from a wild dive, hooting like a yankee, high fiving his mates back in the shower room. I've always suspected that dog shit made you lucky, but maybe I was wrong. In the space of a day I had become, in a sense, sandwiched by excrement.

In any case, one of my friends is leaving Dublin, to Greece, and I've had to move from my apartment because of it. Now I've got a cosy studio in Portobello with a big window, a foldaway bed, a foldaway table, fold away chairs and even a fold away storage box. I have enough furniture in one room to fill a terrace, but everything is snapped, swung and flopped into a neat package, so it looks like there's loads of room. It's sort of a mix between the tardis and Transformers. More than meets the eye.

It's a playful thing, having your own place. Your dirt, your smell, your cups of tea, your films, your shoes discarded, your feet on the sofa. Whatever you do, or don't, it's yours. So even if you do get shit all over the place, at least it's your place.

DIARIT: 9/10