Yesterday my water system blew up.

I mean it actually BLEW UP.

The loudest bang you’ve ever heard, and then so much smoke that the woman on the floor above me (herein named Apartment #13 Woman) came downstairs because she thought my house was on fire… Finally as the smoke drifts away, what’s in its place is more water wooshing out of my water system than I use in my home in an entire month. It was gushing out and there was no way to turn it off. Myself and Apartment #13 Woman raced around trying to find the mains to turn the water off – it took nearly twenty minutes before we realised it could be done from inside my house. Yep – I’m an idiot.

My two observations on this incident are these. Firstly, that water is a necessary part of life – even if my landlord doesn’t agree. I have no shower capability, I have to run down to Soto to use their toilets and I’m slowly running out of bottled water to pour into my kettle to make coffee with. I want my water back!!

The second observation was the instant insecurity I felt when someone I didn’t know (I’m referring to Apartment #13 Woman, but it could be anyone really) walked into my house. I immediately wanted to apologise for the mess (of which even I admit there wasn’t much), run around and pick things up, make it neater, explain away the silly things – I even mentioned to her I’d been working hard, which was why I hadn’t done the 4 dishes sitting in the sink. I love my apartment; it’s my cocoon, my safe haven, my safety net, and my hideaway. It’s strange I instantly want to apologise for it with people I don’t know, but show it off to people I do…