Home and Accommodation

At the moment I share a flat with my younger sister, which works out better than either of us expected. We keep quite different hours, so we're not constantly under each other's feet, but there's always someone around to share a late dinner with. Before that I lived with my parents, so this still feels like a taste of independence.

I live in an apartment on the sixth floor of a fairly ordinary block, about twenty minutes from the centre. It's nothing fancy — two small bedrooms and a balcony barely wide enough for a chair — but it gets the morning sun, and being that high up means I hardly hear the traffic at all.

Without a doubt, the balcony. It's tiny, but I've squeezed in a few pots of herbs and a folding chair, and it's where I drink my coffee before the day gets going. There's something about watching the street wake up from above that puts me in a good mood, even on a Monday.

In my parents' house it's the kitchen, hands down. The living room has the comfortable sofa and the big television, yet somehow everyone ends up crowded around the kitchen table instead. I think it's because my mother is usually cooking there, so that's where the conversation and the snacks happen to be.

Just over two years now. I moved in shortly after starting my current job, mostly to cut down an exhausting commute, and I told myself it was only temporary. Since then I've got to know the neighbours and the lady at the corner shop, so I can't really see myself leaving any time soon.