… I would live in a village.
I would be part of the community and not be annoyed that everyone knows each other. I would wave at people in recognition while walking down the street. I would drive a small car (stick, naturally) to do my weekly grocery shopping. Go into town and buy flowers and cards for friends and family on a whim. Then send them or even better drop the flowers off, just to say hello.
My home would have a huge kitchen and it would be lovely and organised. Ha that’s a lie, not even in another life. My home would be messy but in a charming and hygienic kind of way. Maybe there would be a guy, maybe there would be a baby.
Maybe two, or four. Babies that is, not guys – unless they all turn out male. Hmpf.
Four girls would be a nightmare too, imagine cycles synchronising, so preferably a mix.
Maybe I should start with one and take it from there. I digress, in any case: the house won’t be organised.
Ooh maybe I would have a cafe, that would be fun.
A coffee place with liquor license (what else would the bloody point of a bar?) It would a cosy arty little place where people could hang out and eat. Nice simple, enjoyable food and pretty desserts of course.
What else would there be?
Back at the house, I’d have a garden with a lawn and a pond, and big trees for tree houses and swings. Maybe chickens.
It would be full of colourful flowers in spring, a big garden table for BBQs in summer. Autumn would be pretty and winters would have snow – always. Not the traffic stopping annoying kind of snow of course, just the idyllic pretty sort. At night the garden would light up with Christmas lights, that miraculously appear.
I’d look at the garden from my desk, surrounded by bookshelves full of books and trinkets from travels. I would close the door, sip my tea, open my laptop and I would write.
There are two things that seem to remain in both my “other life” and my reality: I write and I am happy.