Not a lot of writing going on at present. Actually, not any writing, except things like FRAGILE and THIS WAY UP on packing cases. I’ve spent three weeks sifting, sorting, tsk tsk-ing and hurling things into a skip. If they ever make skip-hurling an Olympic sport, I’m your woman.
One considerable achievement has been the dismantling of several miles of home made bookshelves. My husband used to do all that manly stuff while I hovered in the kitchen with flour on the end of my nose. No more. He is a frail and sick man and I must take over. But I’ve discovered how deeply satisfying it can be to figure out how a shelf was made and so unmake it. I’ve fallen into bed at night aching from unaccustomed weight lifting. I’ve dreamed of Phillips head screws. Hundreds of them. I can’t say I’ve lost any weight – rewarding myself with Bailey’s Irish Cream each evening has put the kibosh on that desirable possibility – but I certainly feel fitter, I have a great sense of achievement, and I’m raring to get back to the day job.
A writer and her screwdriver. Whoever would have thought it. Moving Day is December 29th. Spare a thought for me, dear reader.