We're moving upstairs in six weeks, and already it's misery. It seemed like a good idea to move the bedrooms upstairs to the top flat, but now it seems like a very bad idea indeed. There are books all over the floor (again), freecycle bags stacked up in the hall, and an Edwardian hall stand from the North-East looking distinctly unsure of itself propped up against the wall. Dig now says the bookcase in the front room is 'unconvincing'. Well I am not moving it again.
And now I discover Aunty Dee is visiting tonight and she's staying for three days. I've had to piece this information together. Dig got a telephone call late last night. Aunty Dee wanted to know if he got her text. Got her text? Blimey. This must be the first time Aunty Dee has switched her mobile on. I didn't know she knew how to text. This is the woman who sat for two hours in a car park in Wallington wondering where we were. Walking round Wallington, having agreed to meet you in the car park two hours ago, that's where. 'We tried phoming you!' we cried, 'on your mobile!' 'I switched it off' she replied. 'I thought you were late.'
I'm in a pit of despair. The head cold, disturbed sleep for three nights, three neglected children, Dig who's locked himself away, a house that's trashed and I've done it myself, and Aunty Dee who's visiting, all sums up to an impending New Year that's looking decidedly bleak. Tomorrow can only get better.
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