Someone went to Africa, had a Spiritual Time, and filled their flat with lots of carved wood, paintings of Savannah, and cheap printed versions of ethnically woven rugs.
This is my flat in Cardiff. Every time I get home I discover another gazelle and pop it in the closet, which is now a Noah's Airing Cupboard of wildebeest, herons, and wise fat men with spears.
My little chunk of veldt nestles between Cardiff Town and The Bay. Having grown up in Milton Keynes, there's a certain cosy familiarity to the starter-home desolation of the Bay, with the howling wind, endlessly straight roads, and complete lack of shops.
I'm one minute from a Salsa class, two minutes from a multiplex. Three from an opera house. Four from a Bowlarama. But a newspaper is a bike ride away. As is toilet paper, chewing gum and yoghurt.
My first weekend was spent in splendid isolation, just loving the sheer pensioner feeling of it all, trekking to a market, chatting to butchers about interesting cuts of meat, and taking ages to prepare meals from scratch. I nearly, very nearly, went to an organic food festival on Sunday.
I've also learnt, now that the weather's turned, not to pack for a long move during a heatwave. The thought of another day in Cardiff without at least one cardigan was just too much to bear.