I have fallen in love with my rented apartment. What a thing to say in this economy. Nevertheless, it’s true. From the first moment I stood in the ramshackle kitchen with its 1970s ironwork, beneath the glitter-spiked popcorn ceiling, I have felt that I’m finally home. Of course, like all the previous homes of my life, this one was only ever going to be temporary. I signed a short lease, expecting to have a brief sojourn by the sea before real life took me back.
But what is real life these days? Isn’t it increasingly the case that the condition of the everyday is accommodating the unexpected? And so, the apartment – slated for redevelopment pending permit issues, Covid lockdowns, supply chains and now interest rate hikes – is still, unexpectedly, accommodating me.
