Living in a beehive gets wearing on me

As I write this I am sitting here in our Victoria apartment. I haven’t been here in more than a month. That has been a good thing. There is nothing wrong with this apartment. It’s in a nice building with all sorts of pleasing features, like a swimming pool, great management, cleanliness, lovely neighbors, and so forth. But, it’s still an apartment. About three hours up the road we have a lovely house with wonderful gardens, a big yard, a garage, and I find the place to be my haven. No, apartments don’t do it for me.

When I was young and foolish, as opposed to being older and arguably still foolish, I fancied the thought of living in an apartment. Especially an apartment, or loft, or garret in some cultural centre of the universe. It would probably be in London, since London is my favorite ‘big’ city in the world, and also the people speak English. There are those who would opt for Paris, but not I. That’s mainly because I don’t speak French all that well. And, having traveled in France, I know that the French, even if they are fluent in English, ‘will not speak it’ no matter how hard I struggle with their language. Of my pains in trying to parlez, they really don’t give a shit (donner une merde?). I’m not saying I blame them, it’s just that it adds extra pressure to life.

Anyway, in my romantic fantasy of those days, it wouldn’t have mattered if the apartment was a sty, with no hot water, and roaches the size of cocker spaniels, it would have been mine and the concept was a romantic one. It would be all kind of Breakfast at Tiffany's and I would have the George Peppard role.

I have, since those early adult musings, lived in apartments at times. Those times all to often having been based on some wife or other having told me to depart the premises of whatever home we were living in. So, I’ve lived in crappy apartments, and very nice apartments. Nice is better, no question. My last ‘bachelor pad’ was very cool. It was splendidly appointed, my furnishings were nice, and people would come to call, especially lady people, and exclaim how impressed they were with my décor, the fact I always had fresh flowers, and a fine array of books, and lots of good music. Marvelous nest for seduction no doubt, and even a successful one on a few occasions.

But, it was still an apartment. It was confining. My cat used to wonder constantly what was behind the ‘big door’ that he wasn’t permitted to venture though. It was, of course, the outer world. An outer world that could only be attained by wandering down a long corridor and then taking an elevator down a few floors until one reached the outside entrance. In other words, if I had to go out, even fleetingly, it was a bit of an ordeal. One had to decide if one really wanted to go out, or if whatever minor item one was seeking could wait until the next day.

So, when Wendy and I got together, a first order of priority for us was a ‘house’, a genuine house with four walls and an outside that was just right there. A house with no neighbor noise of tramping feet or rearranging furniture or apparent 10-pin bowling taking place in the flat above. But now, due to work pressures, we have to divide our time between that cherished house, and this place.

Living in a beehive has lost its romantic allure.