You know it's time to move...

... when your apartment starts attacking you with bathroom tiles.

(I failed my driving test by the way folks... I've rebooked and will reveal the exact hilarious reason why I failed after I've passed)

But anyway...

There I am, taking my customary afternoon shower (because by the time I've got up, had coffee, checked email and caught up on whatever cheesey hospital dramas Jeremy refuses to tolerate it's more often than not the afternoon) when not one but 2 tiles come crashing down from above the shower head. Quite how they didn't hit me I'm not sure.

After reassuring myself that there wasn't a poltergeist (this involved waiting for tiles to start flying at me from all directions...that this was among my first thoughts says something about me) I washed the remaining conditioner out of my hair, standing as far away from the zone of tile-fire as possible, and then made a decision:

It's time to move.

Problem is I've known it was time to move since before I moved in. It was one of my conditions of moving here in the first place - along with learning to drive and getting a job...ahem...And we are looking for a place to buy, it's just not been found yet. I've come to the conclusion that realtors (aka estate agents) are geniuses with cameras and that architects have a few screws loose because it seems SO simple to build a house that has normal sized rooms but most have failed in this task and consequently we have so far failed in moving.

And now my bathroom, which was already pretty grim, is raining tiles on my head. I'm nearing a year of living here, and while I do feel like I've achieved a lot since moving (namely warding off depression and not feeling completely isolated, and technically I did get a job I just turned it down...), I would like to achieve something a teensy bit more tangible. A new house with tiles firmly fixed to the wall would do.