It’s T minus 4 and counting. On Friday we move. Finally. Finally? Well, we originally thought it would happen at the beginning of August. But buying a leasehold place seems to create its own set of hellish problems that drag on and on. If I were Catholic I’d believe we’d already gone through at least half of purgatory.
The house is made up of hills boxes. Of course, it’s been that way since the middle of July. We’ve had to dig in some of them in order to find things we didn’t believe we’d need before moving. But now there’s very little left to pack.
As we’re downsizing a lot has gone to charity shops. Last Friday saw them take out five wardrobes (yes, you read that correctly), a couple of bedside tables and a few other things. It’s a strangely cleansing experience, watching it all disappear.
I’ve moved numerous times before – to another continent and back, and once a good couple of thousand miles across that continent, as well as many other smaller moves – but this one fills me with joy. I never believed I’d go back to the place where I was born, let alone to the area where I grew up. Yet times change feelings. Since I began writing about Leeds I’ve wanted to spend more time there. I seem to know more people there than elsewhere in the UK, and none of them are old schoolfriends.
I’m excited by what’s ahead. We both are.