Wall, That’s a Change

It’s been about six years.  Probably longer.

Six years since I lived in a place where I wallpapered my room with photos of my friends and adventures.  Actually, back then there weren’t even that many adventures. 

I used to have them everywhere.  The floor would also have a pile of photos that had fallen off the walls in the heat; I would have posters in various states of (dis)repair.   Newspaper clippings, headlines, album covers and flags and those free postcards that you can pickup from cool record stores or bookshops.

I can’t think why I stopped?  Perhaps I moved house and I was scared of ripping the paint in the new place, or I felt that the environment didn’t warrant it. 

When living with my ex-girlfiend, if it didn’t have a frame, then it didn’t go on the wall.  That was the rule.  I don’t know whose rule, but I knew it existed.  That’s not even to go into the question of “why would you want to put up photos of people [read girls] I’ve never met?” [cross arms, furrow eyebrows, raise voice]. 

Ten minutes last night.  A wad of blu-tac. A consistent pattern. BOOM! I have a room in which it looks like someone lives!  It’s a remarkable transformation.  Suddenly some of the most important experiences and people in my life, even if they were some time ago are back, and I love it. 

I can remember the when, what and why of each of them.  The Boatcruise, the Ball, the Bazza and Shazza party when I was very nearly very charming, a Buck’s party, the Wedding (carrying on from the Buck’s).  The far East, my brother, Buddha.   A storm blowing over my parent’s home, the tree I climbed as a child and a photo of my family when my grandfather and uncle were still alive and my grandmother knew who I was.

Maybe this place won’t be too bad after all. 

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