My Wednesday started fairly well. My alarm rang at the usual time. I brushed my teeth and ate and made my way to work. Whenever I cross over the bridge that sits somewhere between work and the train station on my morning commute, I send my parents a voice note. Wednesday’s was a little anxious. A few things are shifting in my house-share: two people are moving out this month and two more are moving in, and all of the contracts, questions and nerves have been channelled through me. Simultaneously, I have been pondering moving out myself, and somehow the combination of it all: the prospect of finding a new place and a suitable replacement, and dealing with all the other emotions and conundrums of the people around me had me shaken. Work was quite normal. One of the two bosses was sick. I asked the one who had shown up if we could talk about the proposal I’d given him to look over back in July. I’d written up a two-page document outlining why I think I should be working for them for forty hours a week instead of thirty-two. This included an explanation of the roles I’d taken on since starting there, specifically highlighting how many of them fell outside of my original job description. Naturally, having taken on more responsibility, I’d like to be compensated accordingly. It was more than a plea for a raise, though. I communicated that I was all in. The whole hog. I want to throw all of my time and energy into this place and see how much I can help them grow. The deal was that I’d give them the proposal at the beginning of their holidays, in mid-July, and we’d discuss it all in the second half of August, after they’d gotten back.
When I asked the one boss if we could fit the conversation in before September, he said, “well, that only leaves today and tomorrow, so…” I’m sure you can imagine how thrilled I was with that answer. One big reason I wanted the extra workday was because it gave me some more flexibility if I choose to move out. Never mind having more cash, though that’s always relevant. Landlords in Berlin (and all of Germany, I think) will ask to see my pay slip. If my income after tax is less than three times the rent, excluding utilities, they are likely to refuse me the contract on the basis that I am ‘high risk’. Yes, really. So, the way I saw it, a bigger number on the contract buys me a higher chance that Mr Risk-Averse says yes. It was a bummer to know that I wouldn’t have a stronger contract come September. I went home with my sails thoroughly windless. Only to discover that one of my housemates (who will be moving on the day this is published) had taken the day off and had been packing his things all day. They now flooded the foyer and the kitchen. Thankfully, I had planned on having pizza for dinner, because his pots, pans and cutlery had all been rehoused in cardboard boxes. In the kitchen, one serrated knife, some plates and a handful of cups belong to me. Even the table and chairs were gone. I brought my pizza down into my room, where the seating remained reliably static, and finished my dinner. Unfortunately, though, I’d managed to miscalculate my hunger and after I’d cleared my plate, I could have devoured another. This is when it dawned on me that I had no other food in the house. Somehow, grocery money has been particularly tight this month and the cupboards looked like it. I had some rolls in the cupboard and an empty butter dish and a mostly empty bottle of sweet chilli sauce in the fridge. I’d had three or four tortellini leftover, but I’d eaten those while I waited for the pizza to bake. I had no food in the house! If I had been genuinely starving, I’d have eaten the bread without anything on it, I suppose. We weren’t there yet, though. So I lay on my bed and felt sorry for myself and called my girlfriend.
And when she asked me if I wanted to come over, I packed a bag with some clothes for work the next day and hopped on the train. The funny thing is, I felt, at first, that I shouldn’t accept her offer. She represented peace and comfort and provision. She’d welcome me into her apartment with open arms and hug me, rub my back and look at me sympathetically and ask me to tell her all about my day. She’d make me a slice of toast and a cup of hot chocolate and reassure me that I didn’t have anything to worry about. Once or twice in the last two years, I’ve felt that running to her, or to my parents who once provided the same respite, was a failing of sorts. That to be strong, or to be a true man, or something equally daft meant dealing with the unpleasantness alone. Looking for comfort in food or ritual or sport seemed allowed, but seeking it in company, wanting to be held or soothed seemed unbecoming. Odd as it may seem, I’m quite proud that I packed up my stuff and sought the comfort of my girlfriend. I am proud that I didn’t chastise myself for wanting it, or for acting on that desire. For though some part of me seems to think it is a failing, I think that part is wrong.
My pizza was also very end-of-the-month. Frozen mixed veg on half a roll of store-bought dough. I didn’t even have mozzarella! I had to use grated Gouda! If you enjoyed this journal, please subscribe.
Grannies cupboard is always full, I miss the days that you came and got all excited about what there was to eat. Such good memories.
Love you always ❤️