I am writing this from the second bedroom of my new flat – a space we have dubbed “the studio”, because we are using it not for sleeping but as a room of creative pursuits. Behind me sits the sewing desk I have longed for; finally, a chance to have both my machines and my fabric and notions out and ready to go at a moment’s notice, after years of setting it all up and packing it all away again. To my right is M—’s keyboard and a whole heap of amps and guitar cases and baffling-looking cables yet to be found homes for.
When I dreamed of this life, I imagined him serenading me while I sewed. In reality, I expect I’ll be donning headphones and getting annoyed that I can’t hear my TV show over the guitar licks. Today, though, he is practising in the living room, at the other end of the flat. I have just ascertained that his refrain of “wine, wine, wine, wine, wine” is in fact a singing exercise – something to do with head versus chest voice – rather than a demand for an alcoholic beverage.
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