Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Living inbetween somebody elses things

Yesterday I had one of those moments when I went through some drawers to find a flashlight and ended up digging through a whole collection of random items to no avail, including a rudolph-the-red-nose-reindeer gift tag, a small lamp, two screwdriver and some party whistles. That might not seem unusual but  I did not put any of that there. Neither did my flatmates. When we moved in, it was already filling up the drawers. We live in a furnished flat and both in this and in my old flat, furnished apparently does not only include furniture and kitchen implements but also a random collection of items, distributed in drawers, cupboard corners and behind the dressers.

This might seem odd but this random collection of knick-knack, that doesn't really belong to anybody, makes me feel like I am living in somebody elses place. With a guilty conscience, I will occasionally use some of it (such as the old tub of wall paint I found while still looking for a light yesterday) but I will always feel bad about it. After all, it isn't mine. Somebody put it there.

The furniture adds to the sense of it being somebody elses space. Being a flat that is passed from tenants to tenants, the furniture was picked for practicality and price. Occasionally, things fall apart and get replaced. The results is a random mix of all sorts of pieces. My room has furniture in four different colours alone. It's fine but it is just not to my taste.

I do admitt that it can have its advantages as well. Squiek and I fixed the old bike some former tenant had left in the court yard. Squiek lovingly named it Frank and they already have already braved quite a few kilometer together. Or there was the time I found this lovely old sewing kit, in a small tin, filled with old threads and buttons and the smalles pair of embroidery scissors I have ever seen.

I think the big problem here is: I love interior decoration and I love things being tidy. I walk through our flat and I have all these ideas what could be done with it. But I can't. I try my best but that doesn't really change the fact that the carpets are dirty beige and the walls faintly pink. My old contract even included a clause saying I am not allowed to paint the walls. So I grumble a bit and put a new pillow on my bed, curl up on it and dream of having my own place. One day, I will.


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