Leaving Cannon Place

francesca conn - 3 Feb 17

I need to rationalise the kitchen cupboards. There’s no point in moving already-cracked dishes; I think the IKEA cutlery has seen its day. Some of this can go to Oxfam; most of it is bound for the bin.

I should switch to paperless statements with my bank, and work out how to redirect the other post.

Then there’s the overwhelming task of sorting through my wardrobe. Can I summon the resolve to finally dispense with everything that doesn’t fit or flatter any longer? Isn’t now an opportunity to achieve the illusive “capsule wardrobe” of few, but quality clothes?

I should make a list; or is list-making another form of procrastination…?

But it’s not just a lack of organisational talent holding me back. This flat has been our home for almost 6 years: how can I be practical when packing up means ending the most significant chapter of my life so far?

I remember when we first viewed the flat. We were amazed by the high ceilings, the huge windows and the brilliant light flooding in. Could we possibly afford it?, I worried. It seemed so grand, and yet so perfect for our first flat together.

We populated the unfurnished space with the belongings we each brought from our previous lives, and then those which, with time, we chose and bought together. The fact that we could agree on a furnishing style boded well for the future success of our relationship, I thought. I’ve found a man who can share my delight in a floral chaise-longue!

The four-tiered bookshelves are bursting with the books we’ve read over the years.  The messy pile of TV box-sets also reminds me of so many cosy nights we spent here, together.

There are sad memories associated with this flat, too.  With the passage of time the smug contentedness of our early love waned, and gave way to some bitter tensions, and arguments. We have to move forward with our relationship or end it, I screamed. And screamed again. If we have to turn in the keys and go our separate ways, so be it, I cried. And cried again…

But then, in October last year, we brought our first born baby back from The Royal Free. In that moment a couple’s flat became a family home, full of love once more. We caught the moment on camera and I often look at the photo: Leo, asleep in the car seat on the sitting room floor; the overwhelming sense of awe and wonder – how were we going to know how to care for him?

Since then the flat has been adapted to fit around the needs of its smallest and loudest occupant. The incredible light of the flat proved a nuisance; the bathroom was the only room dark enough by day to rock our baby to sleep. My computer desk had to go, to make space for the cot-bed, and the toy basket and playpen are now the focus of our living room.

How I have loved looking out at the trees from our front windows! Who would have thought that a road in London could be so tranquil, the greatest disturbance being the screams of night-time foxes, and the peeling bells of Christchurch, on Sunday mornings. From our bedroom I look down on the garden, wishing we had access to it. But how lucky to have the Heath on our doorstep! Leo and I make a daily trip down the Vale of Health, to watch ducks and dogs in the Lake, and enjoy the swings in the playground.

I had hoped Leo would take his first steps on Hampstead Heath. But it is not to be. Our time here is over. The walker needs to be packed into one of these cardboard boxes, ready for the 900 mile journey south.

Goodbye, sweet home – 70 square meters of amazing memories.

francesca conn

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