I really don’t understand how my brain works. Seriously, since I moved to London, I have discovered a series of mental flaws and developed some odd practices that really make me wonder what the hell is going on up there. Like that day I forgot (overnight) my debit card’s pin number; that very same string of secret digits I had been using for 9 months almost on a daily basis, gone in a second with no explanation other than complete fucktardness. Or the day I smashed my head with a wall playing hide and seek (I was running away from my pursuer, watching my back as I moved, and completely forgot to look forward. When I did, it was too late). Or the day I sneezed in front of the bathroom sink while brushing my teeth and forgot to step back to avoid collision (I was a little kid and was pretty much at the same height as the bloody thing. Nothing much has changed though, I must admit). However, what really has started to worry me is this strange habit I’ve got since I moved to our new house: the random fridge audit.
That’s right, I now go all the way to the kitchen, turn on the light, open the fridge, stare at it for a few seconds, close it, turn off the light and go back to my room, empty-handed. I even do it while chatting with my housemates in the kitchen… I just stand up in the middle of our conversation, open the fridge, pretend to be looking for something to eat but a moment after, I would shut the door without taking anything out of it and go back to whatever I was doing before turning into a weirdo. At first they didn’t notice but now they all know, and wait for it to happen just to make fun of me. They chat and pretend to be distracted but as soon as I go near our fridge, you can feel the expectation filling the room; their eyes all over me as I open the fridge the same way a sleepwalker goes for a little hike in the middle of the night, and once I close the door and turn around, they’re all staring at me seconds away to burst into laughter. Bastards.
They ask me why I do it and to be honest, I have no real explanation. It’s like I feel this impending need to check everything it’s ok in there; an inevitable compulsion to make sure our food sits there comfortably, waiting for us to eat it. I know it makes no fuckin’ sense whatsoever but I tell you, it’s getting more and more recurrent and it’s freaking me out a bit. I’ve thought about it lately and I’m starting to think maybe the problem it’s not me but our house. Yes, our house. After all, this strange routine started once I moved there and considering the things that have been happening there recently, that could be an absolutely reasonable motive.
I think our new house has unwittingly become some sort of source of wackiness but I have to be honest, somehow, I really would like it to stay that way. I want to keep randomly checking out the fridge, turning around and finding that lovely bunch laughing at me. I want the neighbours to keep knocking on our walls because they don’t like us to sing “Inmigrant Song” at 2am. I want the little kid next door to keep jumping in our garden to get back to his house (as long as he doesn’t burgle ours). I want our cardboard Royal couple to stay behind our kitchen couch so we can keep writing things all over their noble happy faces. I want to keep hearing guitar chords late at night, finding cakes and cookies with hand-written invitations to eat them on our table, hulking cats wandering in our backyard and all the passive-aggressiveness that has been going on for the last 3 months.
I want to come back to that house next year for another round of that London insanity I love so much, but in the meantime, I will enjoy the coziness of my real home. The one I have got back to for a visit after a year and a half away. The one my beloved family and dogs take up residence in. The one in which delicious food flawlessly take over breakfast, lunch and dinner, no matter the time of the year. The one with the nice garden I’ve been laying down on for the last couple of days for a bit of that dearly missed caribbean sun.
I haven’t forgotten you, London. Actually, I can’t wait to be back in your arms but right now, I must confess: Venezuela, sometimes you’re quite alright.