It's been a week of feeling totally discombobulated. The house is a complete mess; there are boxes everywhere and even though you do nothing but sort, pack, wrap and repeat, it seems the finish line remains at an unreachable distance. I've had it. I'm grumpy, sad, defeated and still in complete denial that in 48 hours all of our stuff will be on a lorry. Which, I may add, is a remarkable piece of deniability considering I'm sitting here typing this to you with the contents of my kitchen cupboard on the table in front of me.
Whilst I'm not a very 'deep' person, I have recognised in more recent times, that I have an absolute need to belong. This longing can make me try and be friends with everyone a little too much (and is probably quite annoying in the process), but there is a guttural need to find my tribe... to fit in and to belong. This past week has been unsettling as during this transitional period I feel I no longer belong here but have yet to arrive in our new home.
So. The plan for this week is that the removal people arrive on Wednesday to pack up. Mr M will drive down to Cornwall on Wednesday so that he is there to meet the removal people when they turn up on Thursday. I will stay here until Friday so that I can clean the house and be here when the house clearance people come on Friday morning to mop up our debris. After which, I too, will drive down to Cornwall with the dog.
Friday night was our last Friday night in the village. As things have happened so quickly we didn't have time to arrange a drinks party or anything so we just spread the word around that we were going to be in the pub for a few beers.... Oh boy! That was such a mistake. If you don't know me - here's a bit of an insight - I bloody love wine and I'm crap at holding my drink! I was, unfortunately, drinking large glasses of Rose which kept on coming and as a result I got very drunk and made a complete tit of myself. Not in an overly brash way - I didn't dance naked on the bar or throw up over anyone but I was swaying slightly and had that drunken glaze in the eye whilst not really understanding what I was nodding to whilst talking with people. NOT the way I had planned on bowing out of the village... but so very me.
Why, oh why, can't I be one of those classy girls that know when they've had enough and can remain witty and charming all night. Instead then, of having a lovely memory of saying a dignified goodbye to some friends, I woke up on Saturday morning with a hangover of regret. It was enough to make me feel wretched about myself all weekend and was then compounded by a friend coming into the café on Monday morning apologising that she didn't make it but had been told by someone else not to worry because I wouldn't have know if she was there or not. Made me feel like shit. I know why I did it. I was nervous about the evening - I didn't know whether anyone would come and then if they did, I worried that only a handful would come which would look worse than nobody coming...so I kept sipping my wine to give me strength.. I sound neurotic and possibly a little alcoholic. Anyway, nothing I can do about it now apart from move to a different county, which is actually quite a good solution to the problem.
In contrast, some very lovely friends invited us to Sunday roast. Sitting round a table on a Sunday afternoon eating delicious food with great company is possibly one of lifes most pleasurable things... especially when the hostess makes the most amazing Lemon Meringue Pie!
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