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| Picasso, self-portrait (Picasso With Cloak), 1901 |
I lived in that fairly-large house from 1991 to July 2000: that's from the age of 5 to 14. Physiologically, that a lot of growing-up. But also consider how a person's personality can change. By the time I had moved into the house I currently reside, I was two weeks into third year.
In plain terms, I was never particularly happy in primary school. From Primary 5 onwards I had a good run of teachers - Mrs Cameron, Ms MacKenzie (maiden name for first few months, although I can't remember what it changed to), and Mrs Fortune - and through those improved last three years I started to become less introverted.
Entering secondary school presented a clean break. At the start of Primary 7, the class had to write about the thing they were most looking forward to in the coming year. I chose the 'Induction Days' - the (then) two days in which we sampled secondary school. The way classes are formed fortunately meant it wasn't a tectonic shift - roughly half of the class was people you knew from your primary class, and the other of people from different schools you'd never met. So a dose of familiarity with the opportunity to meet new people.
Which was indeed the case, because I didn't become Travis Bickle. Moving into my current abode coincided with the end of my personality shift from black-hole to healthy extroversion. But that presents a problem...
It doesn't feel like almost 7 years in this house, and I'm not that comfortable with drastic scene changes. A few weeks ago, not particularly seriously, the idea of moving was brought up. Perhaps it's a lingering neurosis, but this house feels like the foundation on which my personality is built. Pull that out from under me, and I have a fear of having to start all-over again. Like Kerplunk, except more vital.
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