I got my eyes open
by little red pen
We’re looking for a house at the moment. We’ve moved a lot, lived in a lot of houses, got to know a few cities. But it’s time to find a house that will hold us for a bit longer, so we’re looking, and dreaming, and hoping.
So far, it’s all a bit depressing. We keep searching for the perfect suburb, the one with the local park and the harbour and the proper bread shop and the florist who sells simple bunches of just-picked flowers and the boutique bookshop and the grocer with little yummy things and boxes and boxes of fresh, ripe, perfect fruit and vegetables. But that suburb doesn’t exist in this otherwise perfectly loveable and liveable city, so we’re always a little bit “is that all there is?”
Anyway, we figure we can compensate with a good garden and vege patch and a woodburner and a sunny, warm, dry house, so we’re looking for those things too, and not finding them either. But there’s something else I’m looking for, just quietly, and I’ll know when I’ve found it. I want a little writing corner — nothing flash, just a window with a tree outside, space for a desk and an armchair, and the rain falling gently on the roof. Then I’ll settle in, call it home.