The house echoes now. Nothing's here. Well, that's not true: we have everything we need, and then some. But our numerous possessions, currently squashed like a third-trimester fetus in an oblong metal womb, have yet to arrive from across the ocean. It's a mystery to me. How is it that we can function perfectly well with none of our stuff, and yet a massive shipment is going to reach us (early next week, they threaten) and we will have to accommodate it all.
For the last few days housework has been a sheer pleasure, like playing house as a child; trivial, optional, insignificant, amusing. There's virtually nothing to clean! Little to launder! Back in Hove, I never saw the bottom of the laundry hampers as I could only manage to scoop off the top layers, wash, dry, and fold the clothes, then deliver them to appropriate bedrooms before soiled stuff spilled over again. Eight laundry baskets were in constant use. Just prior to our move, I spent over £100 having all the washing done, by someone else. I really truly don't get it. Why did we need all that stuff there, but not here?
I admit I have fantasized about the container ship sinking into the Atlantic and our possessions disappearing, only to be recovered centuries hence by treasure-seekers. Those hypothetical future finders would appreciate all our detritus so much more than I do now. One woman's meat...
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