So, that's that, then. As I sit here, the house is nearly empty; I'm just waiting for the removal firm to take away the last of my stuff. Someone said to me that it was the end of an era but that sounds too grand; but it's the end of a chapter, certainly.
It's an ending that I wrote and that I wanted and that worked for - and probably even needed, to a large degree. And yet, I can't help but feel sad. Partly it's in my nature but partly it's the nature of the event. I've lived here for seven years or so - that's a fair chunk of time. Although I've never really liked Banbury and while I'm very happy in Hong Kong, leaving here is still a bit of a wrench.
One of my favourite songs is Japan's Nightporter, for many reasons but in part for this lyric, which seems apposite: "the width of a room which could hold so much pleasure inside." I look around these empty rooms and I know that I've been happy here at times - there has been pleasure and laughter here, there has been love and light. And I'm sad to be leaving the place where those things happened, even though I'll carry the memories with me.
But there has also been sadness and pain and loneliness here. There's been isolation and depression and tears and I'm glad to be leaving the place where those things happened - even though I'll carry those memories with me, too.
At the risk of sounding like the cast of Rent, we measure our lives in a variety of different ways and one of those is in the places we live. I've lived in Swindon, Broad Hinton, Faringdon, Banbury, each place dividing my life up into phases. In Swindon, I grew up, got a job, got married, got divorced. In Broad Hinton, I became a villager, did AmDram, met J. In Faringdon, J and I lived together, we split up, my job was made redundant. In Banbury I was self-employed and travelling. Each quite different and distinct phases: each of them had an end.
And that's natural; everything has to end. Nothing lasts forever. I have regrets about things - never trust the person who says they never regret anything, it must the hallmark of a psychopath not to regret the hurt and pain they've caused others - and one of those regrets is that I stayed here too long; I got stuck here. Ellen Glasgow, the American novelist, wrote that the difference between a rut and a grave is the length of time you stay there. It was difficult to climb out of this rut and, as I'm only human, I can look back at the rut - in danger as it was of becoming a grave - and still feel regret at leaving it. It was, despite the pain, comfortable here at times and it was what I knew, it was familiar.
So as I sit here, alone, surrounded by memories and familiar sounds (the central heating has just switched on, there is a train passing outside, the DVD player is humming) I think of how I came to be here - the nearly devastating end of a relationship, many years ago - and where I'm going to. For seven years, this was where I left and where I came back to: this was my home. In 48 hours, I'll be on a plane, flying 6,000 miles. And that plane will be taking me home.
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