Shabby Chic

It had been a rather full-on weekend by the time we found our way through the boxes to the bridal suite, discovering the mattress and a couple of objects which felt vaguely enough like pillows to rest our heads upon them.

If indeed it is not age that wearies them, then surely it is moving house a week before moving countries.

Despite, or perhaps because of the distractions, we have made good progress.  Thirty years of other people's lives are slowly being erased under swabs of bleach or being captured in vacuum cleaners.

We have achieved shabby.   Now we just need to find some chic.

Pandemonium

The scruffy hordes descended on Dickyworld in numbers today, large numbers, although not quite as large as the number of years we were celebrating since the birth of the matriarch, and it must be said it passed it's first test in flying colours.

There was a bit of flying dust too, helped along by one of the mother's of our grandchildren demonstrating the powers of her super duper vacuum cleaner, rendering the stairs and carpeted areas walkable in bare feet, a not insignificant achievement.

Mister Four seemed to approve of his special bath in the linen cupboard, and pronounced the plastic channel drain bisecting the backyard to be "cool".  Miss Lily did her bit too, polishing every visible timber floor with the knees of her pyjamas, while the Big "E" feigned disinterest as only a four month old can do.

By the time the sun was over the yard arm, we'd been to the beach and failed entirely to buy her a new iPad in the face of the world wide shortage, but succeeded to pass off some of our now surplus furniture over the course of our twelfth coffee for the day, and Raymonde produced the most extraordinary chocolate truffle cake and we ate and drank and laughed until the wee small hours.

Actually it seemed like the wee small hours, but from memory, by the time the little hand had reached the nine, I was the last man standing.  Barely standing, but standing none the less.  

Happy Birthday Jojo.

Fatigue

We've been here forever and we haven't scratched the surface yet.

We have disposed of enough boxes so that we can walk around the house at least, and a few gallons of bleach later most of the things that once smelled ever so faintly of someone else's dog no longer do, at least until it gets damp again, but the ceiling fans have thus far escaped.

We are unsure quite what to do you see.   They once were white, but now they are not, like wanna be Rastafarians they hang from the centre of the living room and our bedroom, with dreadlocks of dust trailing in their wake.

If we could crochet, I'm sure they'd have little caps by now, sort of bulging beret things that would keep their hair safe, but we can't.

I think they are in for a trim tomorrow.

The First Day

Today really did feel like the first day of the rest of our life, we have barely a week until we leave the madness that has been the last quarter of a year, and the endless round of "welcome backs" is merging rapidly with an equally endless round of new farewells.

As the sun rose over Twoway Creek this morning, it was the dawn of the day after we bade the Home of the Biting Midge our final farewell; the first day in Dickyworld completely unshackled from the past decade, ready to start afresh.  That journey is finally over and a new one begun.

We think we are really going to like it here.