Right, I need boxes.

If there’s one thing you can be certain of in life, it is that you can never be certain. In amongst the japes and downright fun, there’ve been many opportunities to learn the finer art of disappointment in my twenty six long years in this world. There was the certainty that as the top athlete in my year I would win most of the athletic events in my school Sports Day – only for me to sprain my ankle the day before my one big chance of sporting glory, by jumping a tad recklessly over the net upon winning a game of tennis. There was the momentous occasion where I was certain to score the highest mark in the school history of Latin exams, only to find that I had forgotten to turn the exam paper over and finish the remaining 15 questions. And of course there was the unerring belief in my early years, along with around ninety percent of boys, that I would be a rock star by the age of twenty-one.
And what have I learnt? I’ve learnt that I should never assume anything – especially if it involve becoming a rock star. And why am I droning on about this? Because despite positive rumblings all week, it’s only now we’ve put pen to dotted line that I can bring myself to announce that I’m moving into my own flat. That’s right – fleeing the nest, out of my mum and dad’s coveting wing and into the big bad world. Not only that, but in the most ambitious step since I popped out of my mother one fine October day, I’m moving in with Michelle, my long-suffering but wonderful girlfriend. We’re settling in St Luke’s Square, Guildford, from the 1st February, and feathering our nest before we host a suitably grown-up
housewarming party.
To be honest, I’ve been threatening to move out for the past year, so it’s come as no surprise to my nearest and dearest. But it’s a big step, the largest of many big steps Michelle and I have made in our lives during the past year and its one we’re definitely looking forward to. My commitment phobia seems to have abated, and for that I’m eternally grateful. She is, frankly, a lucky girl.
The next few weeks will be a blur of packing boxes, phone calls and joint bank accounts, before I finally bid farewell to one part of my life and welcome in the next. There’ll be a lot of people to thank, and a lot to invite round. I’ll have to learn how to work a washing machine, for goodness sake.
But, frankly, it’s probably about time.