Goodness, it has been a rush, and we are somewhere on the M6 heading south to Lucy.
I do not know how we have managed it. We had all sorts of urgent and important things to do before we left, and in the end it all just turned into the sort of panic-stricken dash which involves people, well, me, mostly, rushing about dropping things and swearing. I got into the sort of state of mind where you do half of a job, get distracted into doing another, remember there was something else you are supposed to be doing but not what it is, leave the second job unfinished because you have just noticed something else you have forgotten, and then trip over all the bits left on the floor from the first job.
It has not been my finest hour.
We rushed and rushed. I can safely say that we have never, ever left our house in such a state. Usually when we leave it we leave everything clean and shiny and polished as a present to come back to, the dishcloths soaking in bleach in the sink and the fire tidily laid ready to light at the merest flick of a single match on our return.
This time I do not think I even wiped away the toast crumbs from breakfast.
We did not get round to breakfast until two o’clock in the afternoon anyway.
Oliver’s girlfriend, who is lovely, was staying with us, and pottered along gently behind me, picking up things I had abandoned and washing dishes and pegging washing on the line. I hardly noticed her at the time because of being in such a flap, but when I realised I was profoundly grateful.
Mark took the dogs to the farm to repair the damage after yesterday’s storm, and then went to Elspeth’s to collect the trailer.
It was all made especially exciting by the detail that the journey was beginning with a hairdressing appointment in Kendal at four o’clock. This should have been fine, because the plan was that we would leave at half past three, which would mean we reached Kendal in plenty of time for the inevitable traffic jams.
At ten to four we were all rushing about peering under beds and dashing up and down the alley shouting Puss Puss Puss.
One of Lucy’s cats had observed the cat-basket preparations and resolved that she was having nothing to do with such a vomit-inducing container, and sensibly, from her point of view, fled.
I do not exactly blame her. We had not looked in the cat basket since we brought them up here some weeks ago, and when I came to dig it out from under the conservatory table this morning I discovered it was still encrusted with copious quantities of cat-sick from the last time they were in it.
Oliver’s girlfriend cleaned it out.
Eventually the cat was discovered at the very back of the flower bed in the conservatory, hiding behind several spiders and an overgrown fig tree. She knew perfectly well what was about to happen, and had to be dragged out, clawing and spitting. She fought hard not to be shoved into the basket, from which her sister was already attempting an escape, but shoved in she was, head first, and they sat inside radiating the sort of murderous cat-attitude which makes you entirely aware that some time in the future, when you are least expecting it, somebody is going to poo in your bed.
Obviously I was late for the hairdresser then, and had to telephone with profuse apologies and cat-blaming excuses, but he was feeling benevolent because he is about to depart for a fortnight’s holiday, somewhere warm, and so it was all right.
I have got short hair now, although some prickly discomfort around the collar and neck, which will probably be resolved in the shower later.
We have taken Oliver’s girlfriend to Manchester, where she is working as a volunteer on the Animation Festival, and we are on our way south with a house-moving trailer as I write these very words.
Kettering here we come.
