Under Reconstruction

overgrown.jpgTouched,shamed and flattered by the three people who’ve told me they miss my blog, not to mention all those anxious for news of my husband, I’ve conceded it really is time I posted. Most important item first, Mr F is doing just fine, thank you. He was told by one doctor (a man who apparently skipped the Handling of Stressed Spouses module when he was in med school) that he absolutely shouldn’t be moving house, but rather should be lying on the sofa with a six-pack and a TV wand.

What to do? Continue packing? Unpack and swallow the colossal expense already incurred? Move into the Hilton and ring for room service? The doctor had no advice for me though I had some for him.

The move went ahead, three thousand books and a piano were lowered from the fourth floor to a waiting boat, and we lived for a week in a B&B, fighting off the Full Irish Fry every morning and awaiting the news that our stuff had made it to Dublin. And it did. And was unloaded by a guy-gal duo from Rotterdam who tossed our hernia-weight boxes around like they were filled with popcon.

So, we are now three-quarters relocated to Ireland, and one-quarter perched in Venice, cleaning our old apartment and saying goodbye to the city and to our friends. We’re living out of suitcases and whatever it is I’m searching for, donuts to dollars it’ll be in The Other Place. Am I tired? You betcha? Am I sad? A little. But not so sad I can’t commit the heresy of saying, ‘Actually, I’ve had it with Venice.’ She’s beautiful and she’s seductive but when you try to achieve anything she defeats you at every turn. She is, as I’ve so often complained, a city of shrugged shoulders and offices that are closed whenever there’s a R in the month and my little Anglo-Saxon soul can’t take it any more.

Now my desk is cleared, my contracts are fulfilled and I have a few weeks to play house. My website, in the meanwhile, will be revamped and I’ll be back later in the spring with a new look and a new book. Stay tuned.    


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