A Wall That Tells A Story

I want the perfect house.
I want to be able to hang up a full blown up picture on one wall. I want to be able to chip a bathroom tile and not call up anybody and inform the damage. I want to grow creepers on my window grills without having to remove them in case we move again. In short, I am tired of being the ‘The Tenant’.
My wanderlust days are over. I want to settle. In a home with four walls to call my own. And a ceiling where I can fix fans, lights, or even commission Michelangelo to rise from the dead and paint up a ‘Sistine Chapel’.
Does it exist, though? I mean my perfect house.
Real-estate agents with their plastic files and even more plastic smiles guide me confidently through dozens of flats. Forgettable, tiresome spaces which fail to evoke any emotions in me. I smile politely as they glorify the significance of having a tiny kitchen.
He says kitchen, I think kitchenette.
Really? You think that is good? Pray, do tell me how hitting my back against the wall when I bend to take something from the kitchen cabinet can be good?
Another polite smile from me.
Bedrooms perfect to be adorned on of those postcards, because it is only postcard sized after all.
Why are you still selling people king-sized beds, I wonder.
Another polite smile from me.
Sometimes, I do come across the almost perfect One. But before my polite smile can turn into a genuine one, the cost bomb is dropped. ‘A‘ and I exchange glances and smile back. This time a smile tinged with sadness.
I rifle through furniture catalogues turning pages randomly, looking but never really seeing. I take a quick peek inside other apartments as I walk by, marveling at the homes that they have created.

Each house has a history. Each chair, each carpet stain and each creaking door tells a story. Someday, I will have a wall with faint pencil markings where I have marked ‘R’s height each year and watched him whoop with joy as he grows taller. I will tut-tut over the cramped space of my wardrobe and vow to call the carpenter ‘this very minute’ and never get around to calling him. I will argue with ‘A‘ about whether we should ‘really?’ use the free space for a home theatre instead of a tiny recreation area.
Ah! The dreams are endless.
And so far they have shown no inclination to being anything but mere dreams.
So I continue my search for the walls that will write our story.
Disclaimer: This is purely a satirical, light-hearted look at my house hunting experience. NOT looking for too-serious-to-bear comments about house prices or ‘be patient’ pep talks. I have had my fair share of advice already.