With every passing day, this house is steadily feeling a little more like home. I’m coming to know its quirks and foibles, and I imagine, for a moment, that it’s getting to know my thudding footsteps as much as I’m getting to know its creaky floorboards.
But it’s the routines that are making it feel like mine, I think. When the sun spills through the windows of the front of the house , I rub my eyes and come to life with BBC news, the early morning presenters somehow dressed and alert. I curl up on the far corner of the sofa in my warm pyjamas and clutch a bowl of cereal, and as I take sips of scalding tea, I watch neighbourhood cats prowl through gardens and paw at one another upon fences.
The nights are glorious, too. Lamps illuminate corners of rooms that are currently much too big and far too empty, and there’s not a sound in the house but for the whir of the fridge motor, or the gurgle of pipes beneath the sink.
I want to spend more time in it, and simply listen; ticking clocks, smatterings of rain against the window, or the rustle of leaves from the tree at the bottom of across-the-road’s garden.
But that will all come, I know. For now I’ve claimed it as my own with glasses of wine, long hot baths and a slither of cupboard space given over entirely to biscuits. Biscuits!