I remember that the floor was clean and uncluttered. The walls were plain, the paintings that adorned them windows onto a world of exploration and adventure. The furniture was arranged sensibly, maximising the available space yet still managing to create a cosy, welcoming ambience. There were potted plants to freshen the air, and glass cabinets filled with mementoes to stimulate the attentive visitor.

It was a good room. I was proud to call it my own.

I remember how easily I was able to organise my possessions. Each item of clothing knew its place. The bookcase and the shelves where I kept my CDs and DVDs were no strangers to the constraints of alphabetical order. The spice rack in the alcove that served as my kitchen obeyed the same stringent regime.

Life was fine in that room. Nothing changed except for the better.

I remember the work I produced there. My prose was confident, sophisticated, savvy. I turned out one elegant metaphor after another. My reasoning was flawless, my arguments paradigms of persuasion.

What I don’t remember is why I left.

I’m in a different room now. Its dimensions are uncertain. The décor has an unfinished look to it. I can’t be sure which are my belongings, and which were bequeathed to me by the previous tenant. The sofa is heaped with unpaid bills, the writing desk with scraps of paper containing scribbled outlines of stories I’ll never begin.

Some people say I was brave to take this new room on. Others laugh when I tell them my address. A few react by calling me names, by pointing to me in the street, by hustling their children away from me. Only one in a thousand is honest enough to meet my eyes.

Common sense dictates that I move. Whatever happens, I’m determined not to grow old and die here.

But there’s no returning to room one.

They demolished it years ago.

Music: ‘Back To Room One’, written by Tony Mansfield and performed by New Musik.
From the 1981 album ‘Anywhere’

http://youtu.be/OoPQN_4V6hA