Living on your own is a very strange experience. There’s nothing stopping you from sitting in front of your urgent essay and knitting for 3 hours. Or buying nothing but chocolate in the supermarket. Or having pizza for breakfast (a decision which I now regret, because my stomach has doing back-flips ever since and I now feel a little bit sick). Or just about anything, really. My mother’s friend has decided to commemorate her retirement by spending 6 weeks in New Zealand, so for the next 5 and half weeks, it’s just me and her cat in this huge house.
I do have responsibilities, obviously. The cat needs to be fed, and the plants watered – and even though the bus here passes no less than 3 private schools, with another 2 in spitting distance, the house is apparently in a rough enough area to be burgled. (As shown by the above comment, I wholeheartedly disagree). I’m quite enjoying it. I went back home for dinner yesterday, and the fact that my parents expect me to have done anything other than schoolwork with this uninterrupted time I have is almost laughable. I have done other things, if by other things you mean singing all of time, because this house is very quiet, and that’s a little bit scary.
I don’t know if house-sitting is even a thing in America, but if someone ever gives you the opportunity, I would highly recommend it. Must dash, the cat needs food, and I think my stomach has recovered enough for some ice-cream. (I can, and do sometimes, eat like a sensible person, I just don’t feel like it today).