When I was a little girl there was this book at school called Mr Mini Man. Now I can't find any trace of this on the internet but you'll have to trust that I'm not making it up. The girl in the story found a man about six inches tall living in her room and she used to carry him around with her. It is possible that this is one of those dodgy false memories, but I'm pretty sure that Mr Mini Man actually fell in her knickers at some point. This was, after all, the 1960s and paedophilia had not yet been invented.
I loved this book and wanted a Mr Mini Man to carry round with me inside my clothes. It's just as well I never told anyone or I might have been adopted. This slightly weird reminiscence is going somewhere, honest.
The desire I had for a Mr Mini Man is pretty much how I'm feeling towards my almost apartment: it's tiny, kind of hidden away, and it's mine. Almost. I want to look after it and have it fall in my knickers. If you see what I mean. I sign the contract tomorrow.
Both my windows overlook the biggest magnolia tree I have seen in captivity. And it's full of thousands of large, tight buds. Symbolic-bollocky-bollocks, yada-yada. That aside, I grew up with a magnolia tree (literally) and to me they signify home. I will almost be able to touch the top blossoms from my window.