I’ve been stuck in my flat for a lot of my first week. Not, like, all the time, but bar going to work and taking an occasional trip to buy unnecessary cut-price vegetables, I’ve been stuck in rooms full of boxes trying to make a dent in the flat packs. I’m in kind of a Catch-22 situation, really, in that I need to unpack my boxes of stuff to give myself some space to get building, but there’s also nowhere to move my stuff to because I don’t have any furniture because it’s still in flatpack form. All I have currently in operation is a TV stand, and what I suspect might be an overlarge coffee table. It certainly seems to take up a large portion of room real estate right now.
My to-ing and fro-ing from work to home and back again has meant that, for most of the week, I could basically have been living anywhere. But that all changed yesterday. For starters we had Pasty Day at my office. I haven’t really mentioned work much, and I don’t intend to start, but I feel like when I say we have Pasty Day, that should give people most of what they need to know. It’s a bloody great place to be. Although I should mention that it turns out pasties don’t make a particularly practical lunch to eat with people you barely know and are trying to impress. You really need to be able to unhinge your jaw and go to town, and it’s just not dignified. Plus, you might find yourself pulling flakes of pastry off your boobs in meetings later in the afternoon. But Pasty Day definitely upped the Cornish Factor.
When I got home that night I’d reached an impasse in my flatpack building. I’d done everything I could do alone. The only things I had left to build were waiting for the help of my Mum and Dad who very nicely wanted to come down and make sure I didn’t get crushed under the weight of a £90 wardrobe while trying to lift it myself. Their prize for caring is that they get to spend Good Friday with allen keys in hand. But it’ll be a Good Friday for me because I’ll finally have shelves for my eleventy million (real number) books.
With the inability to do anything productive looming large, and with no desire to sit in the only chair I currently have available, which is slowly killing my lower back and making me regret my decision to judge something on colour over practicality, I walked down to the beach. I might have mentioned it before because I’m unbearable, but I live less than five minutes from the beach. I don’t know why I haven’t been there more. I paddled in the sea, I watched people playing volleyball, and I instagrammed my evening so that the internet would know I live less than five minutes from the beach. And right before my toes began to detach and float away, because nobody should paddle in the sea in April due to it being very fucking cold, it was beginning to look a lot like Cornwall.