Tomorrow can only get better

Well I spoke too soon there. Tomorrow can get worse. And usually does. This is thanks to Mr Git From Hell. I popped down to the tip today to sniff out bookcases and storage units and had a great time there. It was like heaven. I got three storage units exactly as I need for construction sets, craft items and maths stuff. Since most of my world now is the rearrangement of furniture and the storage of wiggly eyes, I was in heaven on the discovery of these. They slide with a beautiful whisper just under the white desks the children will use in their new work room.

And this is a day on which we'd already had some notable successes; Dig's bought a worksurface that he promises honestly to install downstairs as part of our 'Sewing Room'. Actually the Sewing Room is a worksurface, currently propped against a wall, destined to be positioned in an alcove next to a cupboard, and then have a sewing machine placed on it, but I'm happy, and I'll call it the Sewing Room. Then we've made a wonderful and momentus decision. We're moving next Saturday, on the triplets birthday, so they can sleep in their new bedrooms upstairs when they're aged 7.

So this is a day of no small achievement, and I can see light at the end of the tunnel. The last 6 years of accumulated rubbish is now flying off shelves, the wine rack is cleared of Hama beads, baby stuff is winging its way to the freecycle bags, while neatly organised wiggly eyes and pom poms are settling into their new homes, and the bedrooms upstairs are taking the shape of bedrooms every day. It's all looking like it was forever meant to be. I can sigh happily, knowing that weeks and months of hard work, starting right at the beginning with the clearance in Northumberland and a houseful of boxes, stacked floor to ceiling and waiting to be sorted, is all about to pay off.

And then along comes Mr Git From Hell.

I'm reversing the car at the tip and I hear a bang. So I get out to investigate. I've reversed into another car, and at first I think, 'Thank goodness, no harm there', because I can't see anything wrong with the vehicle I've reversed into. And there's nothing wrong with our car either. Now if I were in any car park in any shopping centre, at this point I would drive off. But there's someone sitting in the car in the passenger seat. So I go to inspect the point of impact closer.

I can see that there's a dent in the door that hasn't cracked the paintwork. When I feel over the door and rub away the dust with my fingertips, there's a dent. Then Mr Git From Hell, who is walking back to his car, requests insurance details. I'm a bit incredulous because it's the sort of dent we get while we're parked outside the house from the vans who park near us. Mr Git From Hell tells me it will affect the resale value of his car. I say 'Do cars have resale values?' I thought the garage just offered a trade in of whatever they needed to get the sale on the new vehicle, dents or no dents.

So we've exchanged insurance details, and Mr Git From Hell is after a new door. Dig is understanding, and doesn't make me feel bad. And that reminds me why I'm still here. It would be easy to make me feel bad about myself, and Dig never has.

Now there's something to look forward to. I can meet Mr Git From Hell on his terms. Look out. On those insurance forms I'm about to become Bitch From Hell. But at least I'll be in a new bedroom, the children will have a new playroom, the front room will be cleared of boxes, and the wiggly eyes and pom poms will be in their proper places.