Moving

For the first seventeen years of my life, one ‘lived’ in a little terraced house, hidden away in a little village.

If that were not cruel enough, fate determined it was to be located in a cultural wasteland, populated for the most part by ignorant and hypocritical bigots; an impoverished third world country, masquerading as a developing nation; a grey and miserable place whose limited charm can only be seen at a great distance.

Another seventeen years have passed since leaving; suffice to say, one lived.

But it was recently brought to my attention (by an acquaintance of the same age who complained about having to relocate for a third time in his adult live) that since 1989, wherever unpacked for longer than three months has been considered home, and to most, 29 residences in 18 years is rather a lot… bearing in mind that for two years in that period of time, one - literally - backpacked across five continents.

In calculating those figures, one observed that the longest period of settled residence was for 21 months, while the shortest period of settled residence was for three months: the most ‘unstable’ period occurred between August 1997 and August 2000, when one lived in a total of 9 different locations. In addition, when last ‘settled’ in permanent contractual employment, one was required to fly around and reside in hotels (all four star… how dreary!) for a third of the year.

Gentle reader, all of the above has become a tad worrying of late. For one begins to suspect it is reflective of many things in one’s character.

Does all of the above have any bearing upon my inability to remain consistent in my narrative voice?

Or my inability to remain happy and settled in a relationship?

While living, has one been over-indulging oneself… over-compensating for lost time… and running away?