summer

I'm sitting writing this in the studio of my parents house in London, where it is - sad to say given that this is my summer holiday - not sunny at all (something which Pete probably minds as much as I do, seeing as his blog suggests that his visit home will consist of nothing much more than reading in the garden. Pack a jumper, Pete.)

The house move on Saturday passed off with a lot of effort and aching, primarily down to the contribution of Pete and Andrew who helped us all the way - several van moves and a trip to the tip. For some reason I found the whole moving experience more tiresome and tiring than usual, perhaps because of the sheer volume of stuff we have accumulated, but probably also because we seem to move so often that the normal rewards of moving (sense of peace, sense of calm, sense of purpose and - most importantly - sense of permanence) no longer seem quite so reliable. So we listen out for noise, eccentric pianists, ravers, shouting loons and passing louts. None come out of the woodwork, so far, although Vic is on edge.

We somehow squeeze into the schedule a back-breaking 3 hour cleaning of our old flat on Monday night which near kills us - well, near kills Vic, who is brained by our shower, which has a dodgy attachment and has threatened to wallop one of us for months without doing so. On our final hurrah, and with crushing inevitability, it does, falling from its perch onto the top of V's forehead as she cleans the bath - so we have to delay proceedings while we look for signs of concussion. Date of birth, please? What's our new phone number? Who's the prime minister? Who's winning the war on terror?...

That done, we return our keys to the estate agent, who tells us that new tenants are moving straight in although we are still under contract 'til Friday (but have moved out). Is this ethical? No, of course not! Do we make a stand? I thank him for his help over the last year (as Vic says, he is no better than he should be) and leave. Ah well.

Fitting everything into the new flat, meanwhile, looks near impossible. We toil, however, and after much re-ordering and a couple of excellent temper tantrums on my part, we are finished. *opens beer, sits back*.

So now, in lieu of a holiday abroad but taking note of the fact that we have two weeks off, I end up in North London for my summer break, in the home I've lived in since I was born (Vic expresses undiminishing astonishment at this, still) thinking, how did things come to pass that I am spending my summer migrating from the sea to the suburbs??? It used to be the other way round, didn't it?