by Sylvia A. Winters
Over the last week I’ve said goodbye to the city that’s been my home for the past five years, to the housemates I’ve lived with almost as long as I’ve been there, and to my shitty job which, frankly, I wasn’t that sorry to say goodbye to. Now I’m back at my mum’s house in a bid to pay off some of the money I owe and looking to Bristol as my future.
Hopefully this will be a very short chapter of my life. I don’t know how long I can stand my dog rummaging through all my stuff hoping to find tissues or paper he can eat, or my cat walking over me to get to my bedroom window, or my brother yelling “Teabag him!” to his WoW buddies at three in the morning.
It’s a strange feeling, really, and I don’t know what to do with myself now I’m here (“Hey, how about that editing or that job hunting you were going to d—” “Shhh!“), although I’m fairly confident I’ll be kept occupied enough, if only by semi-regular trips to Exeter and Plymouth. And writing, but that goes without saying, really. Maybe while I’m here I can finally research a vampire story I’ve had planned for a while.