Moving out of the family home and into your own flat can be an unnerving, but ultimately satisfying experience finds ZOE CHRISTODOULIDES )
MY FLAT, my zone, my little world: when it first became official that I was moving into my own place I was over the moon. A space for me, just me, to do exactly as I pleased. I had visions of grand dinner parties and cocktail nights on the breezy balcony until it dawned on me that grand dinner parties without a table or chair and cocktail nights sans the necessary glasses wouldn’t quite go down a treat.
Trips to IKEA suddenly became awfully exciting and although I was slowly burning holes in both my pockets I couldn’t have cared less. I suddenly wanted things I never knew I wanted, I needed things I never knew I needed. Even cleaning products and bathroom towels seemed more appealing than ever. Did I want ‘wild rose’ fabric softener or ‘pure silk’? And what colour towels would look best against the new tiles?
I finally made the move three weeks ago and yes, it’s a brilliant feeling. No parents to question why you didn’t appear the night before, no one to bug you about not helping out with laundry, no one to question why you don’t fancy that lovely dish that took all morning to cook. It’s fabulous.
The only hitch is you no longer have to help out with laundry because you have to do it all yourself. You no longer complain about what dish is being served at the dinner table because the concept of home cooked meals has become a somewhat distant memory. And when you do fancy kicking your feet up and having someone make you that much needed cup of tea? Well, magic wands really don’t exist.
This brings us to a rather interesting topic. There seems to be a common belief throughout Cyprus that once you move out of the family home mummy still does the laundry, irons your clothes, cooks your dinners, and even gets hold of some supermarket shopping for you. I vowed to not live by these rather bizarre rules; from the moment I waved goodbye to my family home I thought it slightly unfair that I should keep beloved ma and pa on hold as personal servants.
A few nights ago as I was parking my car in my newly allocated slot when I noticed a man who lives in my building (he must be in his early thirties) taking out a whole load of perfectly ironed shirts and t-shirts from his car, all neatly placed on their individual hangers. He was also trying to juggle a couple of colourful Tupperwares in his other hand. Call me a little harsh but if I started dating a man who stopped off at home to get his washing done while loading food into pink and purple Tupperwares I’d run a mile and tell him to grow up. If he still expects that from his mum, what on earth would he expect his future wife to be like? It’s not that hard to look after yourself, at least not when you get past the first few minor hurdles.
Hitch number one: washing disaster. I bought a washing machine and drier in one. I thought it was a good idea, a bit like Wash & Go shampoo. Of course, half my clothes shrunk so much the first time I used it that I was forced to throw out a pair of jeans and couple of tank tops. I shouldn’t have left it on for so long, but they do say practice makes perfect.
Hitch number two. If there’s one major (and I mean major) thing I’ve learnt from my whole move it is that you’re not to trust workmen, ever. Let’s say you’re going to make plans for the day and they tell you that they’ll be round at 8am. Make a mental note that they’ll be round at 10am if you’re really lucky, and plan your day out after that. That’s if they ever turn up of course.
Take note of the following example involving the delivery of a certain coffee table. The appointment was scheduled for 6pm Monday. At 7pm he still hadn’t showed up so I called up the shop just as it was about to close. The shop assistant informs me the delivery man is out of town and cannot undertake any deliveries in Nicosia. So why, I ask, did they tell me he would? “We didn’t know he would be out of town,” is the answer. No apologies, no remorse. And aren’t the staff in the shop the ones who book his appointments in the first place?
The best example of utter incompetence though has to be the story with my blinds. There was certainly nothing complicated about my order – plain white blinds in some rooms, plain black in the others. Black and white in the kitchen. Not too hard is it?
I decided to order them from one of the most popular blind’s outlets in Nicosia thinking they would be the most professional. With the delightful benefit of hindsight I now realise that the busier a place is, the less they are likely to care about your order. And here’s a word of warning – moving into a new home with no blinds or curtains to block out the light is a bit like living in a fish tank. So you can imagine my relief when I got a knock on the door as a man greets me with blinds in hand. You can then imagine my disbelief when half of my order was missing and the other half was wrong.
“No, I didn’t order black and beige blinds in the kitchen, I ordered black and white ones,” I tell the shop assistant over the phone and “no, I didn’t want white Roman blinds in the bedroom, I wanted black roller blinds. And where are the two missing pieces for the living room?”
Try convincing them that beige is really not the same as white, and that I wanted the missing blinds brought to me as soon as possible. To add insult to injury, their unfazed response was: “There must have been some sort of misunderstanding when you tried to explain what you wanted. We’ll have to see if we can fix it – it will cost a lot to change the material you know?” After kicking up a fuss and calling them back on countless occasions to see what was happening with my order, I’m finally told I’ll be getting the correct blinds soon.
A week and a half later I get another knock on the door. This time, the bedroom blinds are correct but somehow the previously missing living room blinds have been made at half the size they should be. Do I laugh or cry? I opted for neither, called the shop, and gave them a piece of my mind (albeit it in a nice enough way for fear of forever living in a greenhouse.)
But despite all the madness surrounding the first few weeks, the feeling of living in your own place just can’t be beat. Bring on the grandiose dinner parties, even if my glasses aren’t the crystal kind and my cooking abilities only stretch as far as spaghetti with tomato sauce.
