The one thing I want most in life is a house; a house that I own and can live in for the rest of my days. I want an address that never changes, somewhere you can always send a postcard or a letter and know that it will find me, even after years of not hearing from one another. I want a place where I can put down my roots, where I can stick things to the wall and not have to worry about how I’ll get them down again, where I can work for a garden and know that I will be the one to reap the rewards. I want a base for my children, somewhere they know inside and out, somewhere they feel safe and secure, somewhere stable and never changing.
The things we want most in life say a great deal about us, often – and certainly in my case – because they describe the very thing we’ve never had. I’m 22 years old, and I can list 19 different houses I have lived in. The longest I’ve ever lived in one house is 3 years. On the opposite side of the spectrum, one year we moved houses 5 times. The year after that we moved again, into the 12th house in 12 years, and that was when I realised that the one thing that I really wanted to get out of life, was to have one house.
I began looking at the real estate in the newspaper and fantasising about the life I would have one day in my one house. I started drawing house plans, designing my own perfect house. And I never stopped. 10 years and 7 houses later I still desire one house more than anything. I still occasionally bring out and obsess over a notebook of house plans: extending a room, adding a balcony, adding a window, moving a wardrobe, removing a balcony, adjusting a dining table.
My perfect house has now become a lavish dream house, complete with sprawling gardens and an ocean view, that few could afford. I hope one day that my writing can bless me with the means to bring it to life. But if not, I’m sure my doctor’s salary will suffice to provide me eventually with the funds for a house of my own, and really one house is all I want.