My Mumbling Thoughts

I just finished cleaning my temporary room that I'll be living in for the next few weeks. Well, I say "clean" when really it was more like re-organizing things so they don't look so disheveled and like I'm living in a pile of my own dirty clothes. And I hoovered. Very important.

I'm back at Helen's house until it's time for her to kick me out and move to Paris for her year abroad. Away from me. In a new country. Living. Speaking a different language. Lucky bitch. I wish I could!

But one thing at a time. My Helen watermelon/chinchilla/Care Bear/English muffin, was kind enough to let me crash at her place after we moved out of Shitville. I've been to her house before and had a really nice time away relaxing and remembering what it was like to live in a proper house, with proper things that don't break when you sneeze too hard. I've washed my first load of laundry in her amazing washing machine and separate dryer. I must point out the fact that the dryer is indeed a separate machine that isn't combined with the washing machine, therefore allowing our clothes to be properly washed and dried. I pulled out my damp clothes after the washing machine had done it's run and inhaled deeply.

"This," I happily thought to myself, "are how clothes should be washed." And oh my god (!) they weren't covered in lint! That's when I sat on the floor in her small laundry room and silently weeped to myself because I was so happy.

They have a dishwasher that they use every day. Every. Single. Day. We had a dishwasher in the flat, but we never used it because a.) it used up too much electric and water, and b.) when we went through the Bug Phase, we discovered that they liked to hang out in there, which gave me the shivers. Disgusting. I refuse to put my dirty dishes in something that will make them seem dirtier than when they originally went in.

Not only that, I can't seem to get over the fact that they have Name Brand items. They don't have Asda's own, or Tescos own, or Sainsbury's own. Fuck that. They spring for the good shit that's more expensive and works properly.

Oh, and can I just mention the CABLE TV? You don't understand how much I've been missing out on because I haven't properly watched TV for nearly a year. A WHOLE YEAR. I haven't watched any of my favorite TV shows (that weren't already on dvd), the news, music videos and crappy commercials. These things I have been denied for so long, and while I thought I wasn't missing much, in truth, it was just because I had forgotten how handy having a TV can be. You can easily get lost in the nothingness of The Tube, forget all worries and go completely numb in bad daytime talk-shows. I love it. I fucking love it.

Yesterday, Helen walked me to the train station where I'll start my very long morning commute to get to work. She lives...far. Out there. In Zone 6. It is such a small town, the lady for London's Transport had no idea what I was talking about when I rang up to ask about prices for my travelcard.

"It's near Kingston," I told her, which is the nearest 'big town'.

"Oh! Kingston. Wow. That's hardly London."

True, Helen's hometown is quite far, but I love it. She tells me not to get excited when we walk into "the village," but I can't help myself. While I do love the perks of a big city, I am truly a small town girl at heart. We wander inside a small shop, and the store owner knows some of his customers by name, and what they already want to buy.

One really old lady, Barbara, comes in every day and buys two chocolates. He knows this. And it makes me smile inside.

We walk around her neighborhood and she points out certain houses where her school friends live, or used to live, and tells me little stories about the people who lived inside the big houses with well-groomed English gardens, or of the time she got drunk at their house party. It's nice to walk around and hear Helen's stories about her childhood. I feel privileged that she's even telling me, because Helen is generally a very private person. She likes keeping her different lives (i.e. "uni life" and "home life") separate, unlike me who will spill my entire life story all over your lap if you'll let me.

As we were walking back to her house, there were two young boys, I'd say maybe about twelve or thirteen-years-old, standing at one of the very few bus stops. They appeared to be nice young boys with moppy hair and gave us a little smile as we walked past. But as we walked on a little farther, we heard one of them holler out to us in a fake girlie voice, "alright sister!" Helen and I just laughed a little and she said, "god, I love living in this town."

It is so nice. I know why Helen used to come back every so often in our first year of uni, because it's so ridiculously relaxing. And of course, it is her home where most people feel most comfortable. The first night here, I slept hard as a rock and had never felt so refreshed. I remember thinking that it has been a damn long time since I've slept that well. Of course when I woke up the next morning, I was slightly confused about where I was and thought it was Christmas, since I had the same feeling I usually get when I go back home to Virginia.

It's not Virginia, but it is a home. Every home, I've discovered, appears to be the same for people: it's where we can lounge around, watch TV, eat loads of yummy food, hang out in our old room, remember old times and indulge ourselves on all of the goodness we normally don't have back in our Every Day Life. It's hard to think that our childhood home used to be our Every Day Life. Instead now going back home is only a place where we go to recover, to relax, to remember. It is a mini break, almost a holiday and a place where we can truly be ourselves and forget that there ever were hard times.