We are moving home on Thursday and I have got into that “This will be the last time that I…” frame of mind.
This will be the last time that I wake upon a Saturday morning in the house I’ve lived in for 22 years.
This will be the last time that I take Betsy for a walk around the village on a Saturday morning. I told her that next week she would have a new walk to look forward to, but she just ignored me.
This will be the last Saturday that we have supper at The Marsh Cat (although we are booked in on Wednesday night so that all the kitchen can be packed up during the day)
But, on Monday, it will be the last time that I do a round trip of 100 miles to go to work. And that is partly what this past year has been all about.
22 years is a long time. The children have grown up in and moved away from this house. But it’s no longer their home – they have made their own lives. As things get packed away, curtains and poles taken down, pictures and photographs taken off the walls, the house is slowly changing from “our house” into “a house”. It is an interesting experience that I had forgotten since the last time we did this. How your home can un-become so quickly. I have driven past our previous home several times over the years, when I have been in that area, and it is just another ordinary bungalow in an ordinary street. This house will be the same come Friday, I’m sure.
Soon all our stuff will be shoe-horned into the new one and our stuff will make that old lady’s bungalow, ours. Our things probably won’t all fit, but we will manage. We will have to live with a compromised home for a year or so, while everything gets renewed, rebuilt or improved. But as soon as the removal men leave on Thursday evening and the front door gets closed and the bottle of fizz gets opened and the hard work begins, it will be “home” again.
So, this might be the last time that I write something on this blog in this room.
If it is, I will see you on the other side.