I am somewhere else.
Having lived 40 years in the one house, I am now, for 6 months, living somewhere different: a tiny, old weatherboard cottage. Front door with windows on either sides, like a child's drawing. Corrugated iron roof.
The topography is different: coming from the flat country, I look out the windows to see myself half way up the trees. From the back window, the land falls sharply down to a lower area where there is a tall, rangy gum tree, a fine oak whose lower branches spread out as if waiting for a child's tree house, a splendid fir. Possums bounce on the roof at night. Magpies visit, looking for treats. King parrots have been busy at the spring blossom: what is that about? Is it like the way that the little girls used to tip up and drink the sweetness from the camellia flowers?
The rooms are few and small. With ten foot ceilings, the rooms feel like cubes. I find it astonishing that 4 of them have fireplaces, although one is bricked up. And none of these rooms was the kitchen. What kind of workman's cottage was this, where they had fireplaces in the bedrooms? I have seen much grander houses where this wasn't so.
I am living with someone else's furnishings, collections, artifacts. This is not how I would necessarily like to present myself, which is interesting in itself. It is somewhat like going out in public in someone else's clothes.
There is a coincidence, in that the house block, at 4/10 of an acre, is slightly larger than those neighbouring. Of course there are also multi-acred estates nearby, so I am seeing this through a small prism. And what I see is that I have always, always lived in slightly larger spaces. I find this to be odd.
Another "always, always" is that I tend to get sunny weather on holidays. Odd and pleasant coincidences.
There are probably odd and negative "always" too, but I refuse to collect those.