... And Counting

It's almost Evie's birthday, which means it's also almost the anniversary of us moving into this house. We moved in a few days before Evie was born (two weeks early, impatient as always to wriggle into the middle of things).

That was nearly six years ago. By the end of this year, barring catastrophes, I will have lived in this house longer than anywhere else in my entire life.

The previous record is held by my parents' home in Upper Ferntree Gully, where I lived from the middle of Grade 6 till the end of high school; six and a half years. After I started uni, I never lived there again, though it was always my safety net (and emergency storage facility -- sorry Mum and Dad!)

Third place goes to the little dark house in Budd St, Collingwood, which I shared very happily and harmoniously with Robert and the cat (happily, that is, until the very end when it all turned rather messy -- sorry, Robert.) I find it hard to believe now that I lived quite contentedly for six years in a house with almost no external light source, but there you go, it's true.

Six plus six plus six is eighteen, which leaves 25 years of shiftless gypsy roaming. I have a suspicion my restless days are over; this one feels like a keeper.

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