It's impossible to describe the enormity of the space in our house which for the past sixty-four days (but who's counting) was entirely occupied by a tiny grand-dog, but, having returned her to her proper family yesterday, the place seems much emptier and quieter than it's ever been.
With three days until lift-off, we've got about six days worth of organising stuff to do, which seems about normal so why panic?
While one of us charged about at her usual unstoppable pace readying the place for the "pest man", the other, confident that he'd timed his run to the finish with some precision, set about preparing the van for it's long winter break, to discover that it had, in a bout of the sulks no doubt due the to attention the small dog was getting instead of itself, spat it's bonnet release cable out, rendering the bonnet inoperable, and the battery inaccessible.
Instead of getting the paperwork together for the coming months, making last minute bookings, finishing the boat dashboard and the tv cupboards, the afternoon was spent in a cloud of hurt and rude words, slowly dissembling the engine bay from the bottom up until enough access had been gained for said catch could be released.
Things will all work out in the end.
They always do.
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