I'm sat at my PC trying desperately to find the words that are evading me. It's meant to be a letter of notice, a letter which will inform our landlord that although we've loved our time in the flat, one of us is taking a step onto the property ladder elsewhere and the rest of us can't afford to stay on. Nor can we afford to risk another stinker of a housemate, so the time has arrived for us to move on. But no matter what I type it ends up sounding like something that a beligerent ten year old has written. But then, perhaps this is maybe because I feel like a beligerent ten year old right now and I feel this way because this letter, this notice of intent to leave our den of kitsch, means that in two months time we will need to have found a new flat which we can afford, that the whole, relentless, tedious cycle of trawling the properties to let section, the endless viewings, the dealings with slithering estate agents, the pack, move, unpack, all of that has landed on our laps once again. It occurs to me that while I had (past tense see?) been wandering around hoping that I’d find someone to walk this earth with, I've also been looking for a place to call home. That in my twenty eight earthly years I have lived in twenty earthly homes. That I am tired, tired, tired of moving, of not being able to buy things for my home, or decorate, or settle. Of not being able to get a little comfortable, sink my toes into the gaps in between the cushions on the sofa, or let my roots grow just the teensiest bit. After a few laboured hours I finally finish this stinking letter and as I print it off and put it in my bag for my housemates to sign, I resent it because it symbolises that my life as an itinerant has not yet ended.

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