Start

I’m currently broadband-bereft, so I'm typing this on a smart-phone. My fat, little paint-splattered fingers are feeling a little clumsy, so apologies for any spelling mustekes.  

We've moved into our new house. This involved some military-style planning. Armed only with cardboard boxes, gaffer tape, a haphazard system of packing, and a hired lorry, we transported ourselves and all our earthly belongings into our new house. I kept humming the theme from the A-Team and shouting catchphrases at my husband, including: “Stop your jibber-jabber, fool,” and “I love it when a plan comes together.” This only stopped when he chloroformed me and put me on a plane.

It feels like home already. The hi-fi was up and running before the beds were put together. A small trampoline was purchased and put up outside the patio doors to keep our toddler son happy. He's also already walked the equivalent of Land’s End to John O'Groats with his Grandad on a series of expeditions to discover the nearby parks/lake/river/train station. 

There's just one thing wrong: our daughter isn't here. The day after we moved in, we drove back to our old town and packed her off on a coach to Guide camp. For a whole week.

In amongst the upheaval of the move and all the associated changes in her life, it made sense for her to go on this trip, which was booked way before we decided to move.

So we're here, and she's not. And it's just not right. Roll on Saturday, when we can bring her to her new home and show her her candyfloss pink room (which is being painted right now and which will have all her precious stuff in it by the weekend).

Then we can properly start the rest of the rest of our lives together.

Video is: The Jam - Start/Private Hell

Video is: The A-Team opening credits