Personal

Digging up my roots

Jack and Margaret ShortJack and Margaret Short

These are my paternal grandparents. I didn’t know them very well and don’t have many memories of them, because they died when I was about seven years old.  It’s a sad story – my grandfather was dying of cancer and my grandmother was knocked down by a car and killed on her way to visit him in hospital.  My dad and the rest of the family kept her death a secret from him, inventing an illness that was stopping her from visiting,and my grandfather died two days later.  They were buried together.

When I look at this photo what really strikes me is how happy they look together. You can put on smiles on for the camera, of course, but look where their hands and arms are – they’re so physically affectionate with each other.  I compare it to photos of my mum and dad together – there’s always something a little strained about the smiles and the body language backs it up.  I wouldn’t have said that my parents had a happy marriage and our family unit was pretty dysfunctional.

After years of cutting myself off emotionally from the idea of family and all the bad connotations it has for me, I’ve changed in the last little while and am now trying to reconnect with my roots.  I’ve started with Jack and Margaret (who I think was called Peggy) because I feel the strongest tie and the most affection for them.  Jack was a homeopath, at a time when that was a very unusual occupation, and I feel my own interest in alternative health and therapies must have come from him.  We were often given little ‘pokes’ (Scottish for paper bags) of benign sugar pills to eat and cuts and abrasions were routinely doused in Calendula tincture, which we hated because it stung like hell.  We longed for the tubes of Germolene that other people used.  He lost a leg in WW1 and I remember the horrified fascination we felt when we saw his ‘wooden’ leg propped up in the corner of the room.  He didn’t wear it all the time.

I have some vague memories of my grandmother – I remember being very impressed because she took the kitchen table and some blankets outside to the garden so that we could play at making tents.  That would never have happened at home.  And I remember she kept a large pillowcase full of all sorts of toys that we could play with when we came to visit.  Most of all I remember that she was fun, and that I always liked to go there.

As was probably common in those days, my parents kept us kids out of it when Jack and Margaret died.  We weren’t allowed to go to their funeral and I don’t think we were told at the time exactly what had happened.  I don’t remember much, but I do remember lying in bed at night feeling confused and missing my grandmother, but knowing it wasn’t something I could talk about.  I don’t know exactly where they’re buried, but I plan to find their grave and visit it as soon as I can.  I have a feeling it’s going to be very therapeutic.

What has struck me most in the course of these explorations, is how precious these old photographs are.  There are stories contained within them.  The one at the top of the post is a poor photo, with some light flare/ghosting that leaves my grandfather looking rather faded, but it’s the only one I have of them in the same shot.  The technical quality doesn’t matter; what matters is that I know what they looked like and that I have a pictorial record, and I’m so thankful they didn’t throw it away because of its technical defects.  I have a whole album full of old pictures of the people in my past and without those photographs many of them would just be names.  I wonder if the tradition of the family album is still alive and well, or if digital storage has replaced it?  There’s definitely something about having a tangible print in your hand, and knowing that the people in the photo have probably held that print in theirs, that feels both satisfying and necessary.

 

 

With apologies to Philip Larkin

I’m a bit off photography at the moment, so I’ve turned to poetry (of sorts).  So with apologies to Philip Larkin’s This Be the Verse, here it is:

They fuck you up, these snoring men
They may not mean to, but they do
They keep you wide awake, and then
Next day you feel dead tired and blue

They themselves don’t suffer much
Except when kicked by peevish wife
The snoring pauses at her touch
Then starts again with renewed life

Man hands on misery to spouse
By snoring like a drunken elf
So find a spare room in your house
And go and sleep there – by yourself!

 

An open letter to estate agents

Green house, Folkestone

We know there are lots of you out there who’re doing a good job.  The one who sold our own house was very good indeed; admittedly we haven’t met many like him in this area yet, but we live in hope. For the rest of you, here are a few things we’ve been bottling up for a while.

If you don’t include a photograph of a particular room, we’re immediately going to assume it needs serious work. This is especially so if you’ve included photos of all the other rooms. What’s wrong with it?, we wonder, it must be really crappy if you don’t want us to see it. When we see a picture of the outside of the house and nothing else, we assume the inside is so scary it would need a total overhaul. Even if this is true, it would be useful to see just how bad it is before we decide whether or not to come and have a look. And that pink and black bathroom isn’t going to be any less of a shock if we haven’t seen a photo of it beforehand.

Please learn some basic photography skills – it’s not difficult and I’m talking really basic here. The most important one is to have the picture in focus and not, as in one case we saw recently, so blurred that it’s difficult to even see which room it is – even the floor plan was so blurred that you couldn’t identify individual rooms. Also try not to make the rooms slope; we assume they don’t really, but you never know……

(If you don’t know how to use a basic compact camera, then I’m available for tutorials at very reasonable rates 🙂 )

All we have to go on are the pictures and information you supply. More photos won’t cost you anything and will help us make a decision that might save your/our/the houseowner’s time and energy. Is that really so difficult to understand? You get paid quite a lot when you sell a house, so five minutes spent putting a few extra photos on the webiste is not unreasonable…….and think of the time it will save you in phone enquiries and visits in vain from people who wouldn’t have gone near the place had they known. Four photographs of a 4-bedroom, £200,000 house is just not enough.

Floorplans help a great deal, and in these days of computer technology are surely not difficult to do. Room measurements are even more important. Telling us it has three bedrooms doesn’t help if it turns out that two of them aren’t much bigger than cupboards.  While we’re on the subject, why do you sell on the basis of numbers of bedrooms anyway?  It doesn’t tell us much about the overall space.  Our old house was about 110 meters square and it was too small for us.  We’ve seen two bedroom houses that are bigger than that, and three bedroom houses that are smaller.  Please – give us the square meterage and we’ll take it from there.

Yes, we know you want to present the property in its best light, but leaving something important out doesn’t mean we won’t notice it once we get there. That quarry, for instance….did you really think we wouldn’t see it? Especially as we had to use the quarry road to get to the house? And didn’t you think that it would be a fairly clear-cut thing as to whether or not a quarry right next to the house would put us off? If we’re not put off by a quarry next door, then telling us about it won’t stop us viewing; if we are put off by it, then viewing the house isn’t going to make any difference. Really, it isn’t.  The same applies to the one with the large pylon in the back garden.

Likewise the room without the window. Yes, I know you called it an occasional bedroom/dressing room but we didn’t realise that meant it didn’t have a window. Windows are quite important to us.  And calling an attic space an attic ‘room’ is a tad misleading – even when it is on the same level as the other rooms – if you have to bend double to get through the door and it has no windows and no internal finishing.

When we phone up to book a viewing, and you know that the property is hard to find, giving us directions would be a good idea. After all, it’s your time that’s going to be wasted too when we don’t turn up because we’ve spent 45 minutes driving around trying to find it. Saying ‘oh yes, we have trouble finding that one ourselves’ does not make us feel any more kindly towards you and refusing – when we ask beforehand – to give us a phone number for the person showing us round only makes it worse.

And to the two estate agents who were asked twice to set up viewings over six weeks ago, and who have yet to come back to us, we wonder how interested you are in selling these houses. As it happens, we’ve changed our search area since then and are no longer bothered, but if I were the vendor I’d be very unhappy if I knew about this, and if we’re selling in the future we will not be using you.

When we come in and ask you for advice, we’re doing it because you’ve seen the houses for sale, you know the area, and you might be able to suggest something we hadn’t thought of or give us some good advice. Putting the number of bedrooms wanted, the desired location, and the price into a computer programme and hitting Send is something we are perfectly capable of doing for ourselves on Rightmove. We want more from you.

When we’re considering placing an offer, please don’t try to tell us that we can’t negotiate on the basis of replacing the bathroom. It’s entirely up to us what we negotiate on; your client doesn’t have to say ‘yes’ of course, but no-one can stop us negotiating on whatever the heck we think is significant to us. Whether or not you think it’s significant is not important. You might be happy to live with a bathroom that’s 35 years old and falling apart, but we’re not. Also, the schoolmistressy approach really doesn’t work for us. We feel we should be treated a little better, as we know there aren’t many people like us around – ie, house sold, mortgage approved and money in the bank waiting to be spent…….if only we could find a house we like.

Do try to be consistent. When I am told by you that the vendor will only consider an offer close to the asking price, it’s confusing when my husband is told – also by you – that the vendor is open to significantly lower offers. Which is it?

We know that advice is often ignored, and we realise that perhaps your client is one of those who has chosen to ignore it. However, please do your very best to get it through to them that because the house was worth X amount several years ago, it doesn’t mean it still is now that the property market is in a downward slide. This might help the surprisingly large number of vendors whose over-priced houses have been on the market for as long as two years.

Similarly, all of the following are very off-putting: leaving clear evidence of bad leaks, carpets that smell, anything that smells, obvious dirt or neglect, one whole room being taken up by a screeching parrot in a cage, renovating a three-bedroom house and putting in a kitchen barely suitable for a one-bedroom flat, renovating a house beautifully but not bothering to put in central heating, long-dead birds on the doorstep, single fathers who present their (over-priced) houses warts and all with paper peeling off the walls and tell us we have to see past that, and…..well I’m sure there will be more. It reminds me of Wendy Cope’s poem about men:

There are so many kinds of awful men –
One can’t avoid them all. She often said
She’d never make the same mistake again;
She always made a new mistake instead.

There truly are so many kinds of awful houses and while we’ll never make the same mistake again I’m sure we’ll go on making new mistakes instead. Estate agents, we really want to buy a house from you – how about making it easy for us?  And you.

Be careful what you wish for!

Everything is going to be alright

Another year, another birthday. Last year on my birthday, I wrote this:

I need a change or a challenge. And not the kind of everyday challenge like earning money and finding work, but something completely new and exciting and possibly scary, that will stretch me out of the complacent, contented shape I’ve recently grown into, even if it’s only for a few hours. I don’t know what it’ll be yet, but watch this space……..

Be careful what you wish for!

The last year has been tumultuous – the threat of Geoff’s redundancy hanging over us for the first half of 2011, then the reality of that, then his mother’s illness and death in November, followed by a job offer in December, then less than six weeks to get ourselves moved 300 miles, our frustrated attempts to fit all our possessions into too small a space, waiting for our old house to sell, and now looking for a new place to buy, not to mention the myriad other tiny frustrations and the strain all of this puts on a relationship between two very stressed people.

I think maybe it’s not too surprising I went into meltdown a couple of weeks ago and that perhaps the last year is simply catching up with me now that I have time to spare. I feel so much more positive now than I did, which is a blessing, but my emotions are as transient and fragile as soap bubbles, appearing and disappearing almost from moment to moment, triggered by the tiniest of events. It’s true that without change I get dull and bored, and I was certainly ready for some, but I’m not sure I’m very good at handling it when it comes.

Life still feels as if it’s very much in limbo. We’ve sorted out the rented house to a point where it’s comfortable and looks reasonably nice, but there are a multitude of small things that haven’t been done because it seems a little pointless when we only expect to be here for a few months. There’s little sense in spending money on nice new curtains when they might not fit our future windows, so we make do with what we have. We’ve hung some of our pictures, but many more lie in the spare bedroom propped against the wall. Our guest bedroom never has been sorted out and has turned into a kind of junk room for the overflow, and it’s unlikely we’ll do anything about that now that we’re hoping to move again soon. Normally I’d have planted flowers and spent time in the garden, but it’s not our garden and I find it hard to sustain much interest in doing anything more than keeping it tidy.

Everything is still a little makeshift, including my lifestyle. I thought it would be wonderful to have all this spare time but I feel so unfocussed and scatter-brained that I rarely achieve much. I thought I’d have fun exploring, and I have to some extent, but without friends to share things with it feels a bit flat. I thought I’d set up some photography workshops and tuition here, but it takes time to know where to take people or where you can find good spaces to hire and I’ve lost a bit of confidence in myself, too, making it hard to put myself out there. I thought I’d get excited about the photographic possibilities of a new place and take loads of shots, and I’ve hardly picked up my camera since I came here. I thought I’d use the extra time to work on my website and online activities, but the more I sit at my computer the less I want to be there and all too often I find myself mindlessly surfing the web. Then, of course, I do a good job in beating myself up about all of this.

Slowly, though, the changes inside are coming to match the ones on the outside. I’m beginning to let go of the idea that Kent is ‘home’ and to see that this is where my home is now. I haven’t made any friends yet, but I’ve met a few lovely, bright, and intelligent people and one or more of those may turn into a friend given time; if they don’t, I can see there will be others who will. And my biggest problem – that this area has never felt like a good fit for me – now looks set to be solved by moving just over the border into North Wales. I’ve found a place I love there, a small and pretty village with several coffee shops, a great restaurant, a very nice pub, a wonderful farm shop/deli, lots of green spaces, and far fewer people to the square mile than you find here. I’ll be able to go for long walks in empty woods and I’ll be that much nearer to the beauty of the Welsh mountains and coast.  I’ve found somewhere I really do love , and I can’t wait to be living there.

And finally, we’ve seen a house we like. It needs work, and the work will have to be done before we move in, but it’s pretty much everything we wanted and didn’t think we’d find all in one place at a price we can afford. I would get the peace and seclusion I love – it’s at the end of a leafy, country lane – and Geoff would get all the space he’d like us to have – it’s a big, four-bedroom house with a huge garden. We’re costing the work at the moment, and hope to put in an offer soon.

Change isn’t something you can rush, or more accurately, getting used to change isn’t something you can rush. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ theory about the five stages of grief is well known, and it seems reasonable that it could also be applied to adapting to enforced change. I’ve been through the anger, the bargaining (yes, OK, I’ll move there but I have to be able to visit London frequently) and the depression, and the next one to come should be acceptance – although, of course, it’s not a linear process but one where you often keep looping back and forth. But I can feel the acceptance beginning to gather and warm me inside, like the good feeling of a hot meal in an empty stomach. I think everything is going to be alright.

 

Home truths

 

View from bedroomThe view from my bedroom window

After some wrangling over the final price, we’re exchanging contracts on our old house tomorrow. As you can imagine, houses – or more accurately, homes – have been on my mind a lot lately. We’ve been viewing large numbers of them and discovering it’s very hard to find anything we like that also suits our needs. I’m finding that no matter how firmly I put on my rational hat, in the end it’s the feel of the place that decides the matter. It’s made me think about what ‘home’ means, and what I need and want from it.

I’ve discovered a few things about myself that I hadn’t been fully aware of. It seems my need for privacy is almost overwhelming and is also coupled with a craving for green and natural spaces. The privacy thing is a big issue, both inside and outside the house. Starting with outside: I hate, hate, hate houses that are all crammed in close to each other with no space around them – they make me feel claustrophobic; I can’t bear people being able to look in through the windows but I do want to be able to look out, so nets at the window are not a solution; I need a garden that’s not overlooked so that I can potter about in a bikini (a somewhat alarming sight these days) or do yoga on the lawn without being observable; and while I’d love to have nice friendly neighbours – and to be one – my idea of a nightmare is someone constantly turning up on my doorstep wanting to come in for coffee.

I’m afraid I get even weirder when it comes to the inside. My secret fantasy has always been to have a relationship where each spouse has their own house next door to each other, or they share a house that’s split into two flats, or some variation on that theme. I’m really not very good at sharing a space and I tend to spend nearly all my time in the one room that feels like mine – my study/office. I rarely use the living room, and only sit in the dining room when we’re eating together. I know where this comes from. My mother was a very difficult person and it was good policy not to be where she might notice you and decide you were doing something she didn’t like, or not doing something she thought you should be doing – out of sight, out of mind was the safest option. We were a bickering sort of family, too, and I didn’t like that, and my room became my safe place where I could hide and get some peace and quiet.  Most of my childhood was spent in my bedroom and even now I can only truly relax when I’m by myself in a non-shared space.

My husband comes from a (much happier) family of four children and is considerably more at ease sharing spaces than I am. Understandably, he doesn’t really ‘get’ my need to have my own exclusive territory. I was quite appalled with myself recently (and I’m sure he would be too if he knew about it) when I realised that the main appeal of one house we were considering was that I could have my own bathroom, my own sitting room, and my own bedroom as well as my study, as there were enough rooms to divide the house up between us. Oooops…..

The craving for nature has two prongs. The first ties in with the privacy thing – if you’re looking out onto fields and green spaces, then by definition you’re not overlooked by other buildings. The second is a little deeper. I’ve been reading a book called House as the Mirror of Self by Clare Cooper Marcus – a fascinating read about the psychology of home. One of the exercises asks you to tune in to where you feel most at home and my sense of belonging in the world – ie, feeling at home in it – only really kicks in when I’m in a green space that’s empty of people. The man-made world seems like a crazy kind of place to me most of the time and nature restores my faith in it all making some kind of sense. Walking through woods, or on the beach, I feel connected to the world and at peace with it. Given the choice, the only sounds I want to hear are birdsong or lapping waves or the wind in the trees or foxes barking. When I’m inside my home, I want to be able to see a lot of sky and at least a few trees and some greenery. If I had my way, I’d most like to live right out in the country down a narrow single-track lane. I did this once, for a while, and I loved it – my room looked out over fields full of cauliflowers to the sea on the horizon.

As you can imagine, unless you have an unlimited budget these kind of requirements make it hard work finding somewhere that fits, especially when the bulk of houses in this area are relative new-builds packed in to sprawling estates. Most of these houses are bland and box-like as well; I didn’t mention we’d also like our new home to have a bit of character. At the moment I’m despairing of ever finding somewhere that will work for us, and I feel as if I’m turning into a fussy, demanding, pain in the ass, to be honest. I really wish I wasn’t like this; I wish I loved being right in the middle of this messy, people-filled thing we call life, but I don’t think I’m going to change any time soon. And given that we’ll probably be living in our new home for the next fifteen years or more, I think we have to get it right.

“There should be at least one room, or some corner, where no-one will find you and disturb you or notice you.  You should be able to untether yourself from the world and set yourself free, loosing all the fine strings and strands of tension that bind you, by sight, by sound, by thought, to the presence of other [people].”

Thomas Merton

The loneliness of the long-distance photographer

Solitude

Today I have a question: how does an introvert make friends in a new place? You’ve guessed, of course – I am that introvert. Before I go any further, I feel the need to clear up a few possible misunderstandings. I’m not shy, and I’m not anti-social. I don’t need help with my socialising skills (as some articles on this topic rather condescendingly assume) and I’ve even been told that I’m fun to be with. I’ve worked with people all my life and have had lots of feedback saying I’m very easy to get on with.  You’d like me – honest.  You might think I’m coming over a tad defensive here, but you see I have to get this out of the way because introversion has such a bad press. People think we’re gloomy hermits at best and serial killers at worst (well, he was always very quiet, wasn’t he? – a loner, you know).

None of which is true. However, we are very definitely not at our best in large groups of people and that’s a problem. Another problem, which might be unique to me, is that – can I be honest here? – I find most group activities and conversation very boring and I so hate being bored.  I can do small talk and even enjoy it at times, but what I really love is those conversations with just one other person that flow effortlessly from trivia to something deep to something personal to trivia, and back again, and leave me feeling alive and happy and mentally stimulated.  These kind of conversations are not easy to find, and are (in my experience) less likely to be found in group settings than anywhere else – I’ve often thought that in a group the conversation tends to settle at the level of the lowest common denominator (and that can be very low indeed).  So it takes a huge amount of energy for me to project myself in a large social group, and I mostly get very little return for the effort; it doesn’t make me feel a whole lot like trying, especially as the kind of people I’m most likely to get on with probably wouldn’t go to these things anyway. I end up slinking home feeling as if there’s something deeply wrong and flawed about me because I don’t enjoy what passes for fun in the eyes of the majority.  It’s not a good feeling.

So what to do?  I know it’s up to me and people are not going to be beating a path to my door anytime soon. I’m happy and willing to make the effort, but where do I direct it?  I’ve considered loads of things.  Groups that are primarily for socialising really aren’t my cup of tea at all (see above) and I much prefer something where I’m doing something interesting anyway, so that if I make a friend or two in the process then that’s a bonus.  In the past I’ve always made my friends through work or study – usually the latter.  Unfortunately I don’t have any work here yet; I’ve thought about getting a part-time job, and that might be a good idea on a number of counts, but the kind of job I’m likely to end up with isn’t likely to produce much in the way of potential friends.  There’s also the small problem that there’s very little work available locally.

I’d like to study something, but what? Photography, yes, but I can’t afford to do a college course and other courses are technically based for the most part and not what I want.  I’d love to learn bookbinding, but can’t find anywhere that does it.  At the moment I can’t think of anything else I want to learn about enough to go to a class. I do go to things like yoga classes, but they’ve never proved very conducive to making friends; people tend to come in twos and are anyway so zonked out by the meditation at the end that they get changed, eyes glazed like zombies, and quietly drift away.

A couple of people have suggested volunteering. I may well do this yet, but my history of volunteering is a sad and sorry tale.  The first twice I tried it – at a unit for people with head injuries, and a centre for people with emotional problems – it turned out I was expected to sit around and make conversation with people.  No, no, no…….I need something to do, and then I can happily chat to people while I’m doing it.  Another time I volunteered to give IT help to a centre for disabled people.  It took them four months to process my application, by which time I’d mostly lost interest, and when I did finally get there no-one seemed to need me and there was nothing to do except – you’ve guessed – sit and chat to people.  Yet another time I phoned an arts centre to offer myself as a volunteer.  ‘What sort of thing do you want to do?’ said the person on the other end of the phone.  ‘I’m not sure, can you tell me a bit more about what you need?’ I replied.  ‘I’ll send you a leaflet’, she said.  She did – the same leaflet I already had that said to phone them for details.  I didn’t persevere.

The one bit of voluntary work I really enjoyed was some tree planting, but even that didn’t work out. I’d moved to Scotland at the time, and like now, was in need of new friends and company.  I went along to the local conservation volunteer day, to find I was the only person that had turned up.  After being shown how to plant trees the right way, there I was, no-one in sight, alone in the middle of a large and empty expanse of moorland, busily (but admittedly quite happily) planting saplings.  It could only happen to me.

I’m sure it will all work out eventually, and probably in ways I can’t anticipate right now.  In the meantime, to those of you who just might be in the Liverpool/Wirral/Chester/North Wales area – coffee, anyone?

 

Chancing my arm

Tower Bridge, opening

You may have noticed a certain lack of activity on here recently. It’s down to a number of things that have all come together at once, but it’s mainly because I seem to have developed repetitive strain injury in my left wrist and arm, and typing has become a painful exercise. It throbs even when I’m not near the computer and it’s been bad enough at times to stop me sleeping.

My arm’s been feeling a little strange for a while, and heaving boxes full of books around during the move didn’t help things at all. However, the real culprit was the two or three weeks when I had to use a laptop instead of my desktop computer – the typing position was very awkward as I didn’t even have a desk to sit it on at the time and had to crouch over a coffee table.  I’ve had something similar happen before.   A while ago, before we moved, I set my desktop up to be as ergonomic as I could manage – this was prompted by problems I was having with my neck that time (I think I may be slowly disintegrating). That plus a bit of Bowen therapy got my neck back to normal but now I’m going to have to look very hard at the whole thing again.

Apart from a bit of height adjustment (which is going to be difficult given the existing office furniture) the obvious solution is an ergonomic keyboard. These are really weird……they split the keyboard in two with each half set at an angle – a bit like Tower Bridge looks when it’s halfway open (see above). They also add in a kind of humped effect going from front to back, plus one or two other strange little delights. I’m going to have to find somewhere to try them out and make sure I can still touch type in these crazy positions, but a bit of experimental hand twisting has convinced me that this might well be the answer.  I hope so.

The downside is that I do believe these keyboards are quite expensive to buy, so I’m hoping I don’t have to pay an arm and a leg for it.  I’ll just have to go there armed with lots of cash, but it will be worth it – a real shot in the arm to be able to type painlessly again.  In the meantime, since the sun is over the yard arm and I’m literally chancing my arm to keep typing, I’m off for a large glass of wine.  OK, ok, I’ll stop now, I really will…….

Boxes again, and a cat in a basin

Boxes

I just have two quick things for you today. First, notice the pile of empty boxes above – there are 130+ and don’t include the 25 or so we gave back to the removers on the day.  The question now is: where do we put the empty boxes???  (we’re going to need them again before the year is out)

Second, one of my cats has taken up residence in the wash hand basin. She’s fascinated by the water that comes magically out of the taps; she can’t quite figure out when it’s going to happen, and hasn’t made the connection yet with my presence being the deciding factor, so she hangs around in hope……

Jammy the cat

Boxed in!

Boxes 1

We’re here, we managed to transport two cats and two rabbits here without too much trouble, and the house is liveable in – just. There are boxes everywhere, piled above head height in places.  I’m appalled at how much stuff we have, and that’s after giving our home a fairly serious decluttering about a year ago.  There’s something almost obscene about the sheer quantity of things we possess when you see them all boxed and together in one place.  Much of it is books, which I don’t mind and don’t place in the general category of clutter, but an awful lot of it is bits and pieces that ‘might come in useful one day’, but probably won’t.  I’m thinking if that day hasn’t come in the past year or two, it probably isn’t going to.

The problem is that we had a loft full of this kind of stuff and there isn’t any accessible loft space here, or even a garage to put it in, so it’s all in the living space at the moment.  There are some things I’d planned to get rid of anyway and wanted to sell on ebay, but they do need to have a home in the meantime that keeps them out of our way.  We also have things like a washing machine that doesn’t have anywhere to go because the rental property already has one – we don’t want to get rid of it because when we buy again we’ll probably need it.  And our old home had a couple of huge storage cupboards, which we don’t have here, so space needs to be found for their contents.  We’ve looked at various options, including commercial storage, but that’s way too expensive so we ruled it out and have now concluded that buying a large garden shed combined with some radical culling will probably solve the problem, and we can take it with us when we go – which is all fine, but we still have to buy the garden shed and erect it and until we do we’re going to have to live like this.

My study is still a mess and full of – yes – boxes. I’m writing this on the laptop at the dining room table (which is in the living room because the dining room is full of boxes!), but am hoping to have located my computer again by tomorrow and to have a small space cleared round my desk that I can work in.  I’ve really missed my blogging and other online activities and can’t wait to get back to doing some photography and writing again.

This all sounds rather gloomy and it’s certainly not meant to. I’m actually as happy as a pig in clover – I love the house, which is full of light and air (or will be when the boxes go), and I like the area.  I’ve not had time to explore yet – I’ve hardly left the house since we got here – but am looking forward to this immensely.  And since I rather like organising and tidying, there’s a lot of satisfaction to be found in unloading boxes and deciding where things will go.

Before I go, I think our removal company deserves a mention. Darrell, Gordon and Martin were absolutely wonderful – they worked tirelessly to pack us up and move our stuff, stayed unfailingly cheerful, considerate and helpful, and didn’t even complain too much at having to carry yet another box of ‘Gilly’s books’ up a steep flight of stairs.  If you live in Kent and are thinking of moving, I can thoroughly recommend Jordan & Jarret.

Boxes 2These boxes are just the ones holding the books that were in the loft; there are about two to three times as many that came from the main part of the house!