The Move East

Bugger it. The smoking has to end. I was leaning so far out the window tonight, arms extended to the breeze, that I cut off the blood to my hands. It’s a miracle I can type. And all for another cigarette. Those little bastards make people do terrible things. Like hang half suspended from a first floor window. There are only two options. Pack them in, or move to a smoking house.

So moving it is. A bigger place. I’m kidding about the smoking of course. That stops anyway. The moving doesn’t though. I’m sick of Streatham. Small supermarkets, no tube. So I’m heading east. That’s the plan. East by about a mile and a half. Balham. ‘Bal Ham’ as Peter Sellers called it. Where pretentious café’s are in abundance and Tooting Bec is only a short 1am walk away.

This is still only a plan of course. The technical side of things, like finding somewhere and actually paying for it could be months away. But the thought is good. Enough to reassure me that window dangling is only a short term measure and that things will improve on the home front. And that new adventures will start that don’t depend on night buses.