A time I went way off track

Here's my latest dalliance with the Man Repeller Writers Club - I had a stab at writing 500 words on a time I lost (but then found) myself a little bit...

I still blame the paint. That 7L can of white paint that I bought on Shaftesbury avenue and staggered home with via London’s finest public transport, all the way to Crouch End.  

After breaking up with my boyfriend, I was moving into my first room in London on my own and I wanted to make it mine with a good coat of white paint. It felt like an important thing to do. Plus, the room was currently purple, which wasn’t really the backdrop I’d imagined for my new, mature phase of self-discovery and fulfilment.

Just to clarify, I wasn’t vandalizing – I was a property guardian so we were basically allowed to do what we wanted to our usually fairly shabby and depressing rooms. But this one was different. It was beautiful – high ceilings, massive windows, wooden floor. I couldn't believe my luck. It was my little haven.

With my strange assorted furniture gathered from a string of strange assorted places and the smell of fresh paint still hanging in the air, I could feel myself becoming less fragile and more me with every day that passed. It may have been the fumes, but I was happy. It was the smell of newness and change. That room meant a lot to me.

So, when two months later I was evicted, it sent me spinning. Sometimes being off track and thinking you’re off track are the same thing. I thought it was a sign from the gods that I was just way off the mark. How stupid to have spent a week painting a room that wasn’t even mine. How stupid to think I was capable of doing this on my own. Of being in London, of being away from my family, of holding down this great job. I was certain I must have been way off track all along and I’d only just realised it.

So, I did what any respectable person does in this situation and called my mum. And told her I was moving home, away from London and back up North. A few days later, I decided to go the whole hog and upgrade my escape to one of epic proportions. I decided to move to Australia. Foolproof.

But something didn’t feel right. Running away has never been my style. And that’s when I realised, now I truly am off track. Way off. So I didn't go.

I stayed. I stayed in London, I packed up my things and I found somewhere else to live. And this time, I didn't paint the walls. I just stuck stuff up so that I could take it with me. A roaming nomad with a suitcase full of magazine pages and blue tack.

But in the end, I didn’t roam any further. I was there for a whole wonderful year and then I met the man who is now my husband.  And soon we’ll be buying our first house together.

And this time I’m definitely painting the walls.