If you’d asked me a few years ago where I saw myself aged 50, I wouldn’t have said renting a room in another bloke’s house. I’d have probably been quite shocked to see myself now.
But in my post-divorce world I’m happy. And ultimately that happiness is worth more than anything.
While wining and dining Rachel away at our new year retreat in deepest darkest Shropshire, and introducing her to the regular concept of “Oldham nil” on an away day in Shrewsbury, my landlord and his family were moving my stuff from an upstairs room offering quite a bit of space to a smaller option downstairs.
The steps have become an occasional problem for me, not least on my middle aged nocturnal visit to the gents, and I decided the time has come to bite the bullet and request a room move.
And while my new accommodation is a smaller room, kitchen and bathroom are nearer so any wear and tear on my declining bones is significantly reduced. As is the increasing risk of falling over and breaking my bones.
There is confusion. I now have to sleep on the other side of the bed. The charger for the iPad comes in at the wrong side. And I need to work out what to do with my suitcases and travel bags that don’t really fit anywhere now.
I also have three or four boxes of stuff that I like to have around me. Stored at a time when I thought I’d be buying my own place in future. Nothing of monetary value, but reminders of the kids. Often things they’ve bought for me. While logic would dictate I have no further use for them and they’ll just be a burden for others when I’m no longer around, I still want them near me. I still want to feel the love they were given with.
Maybe it’s a little win for the disease. But reality says there’s no point taking a risk of falling when I don’t need to. And I can carry on being happy without stairs hurting me a little each time I use them.