Last night: Sat at the picnic table in the front room. The décor is indoor camping chic. Two uncurtained windows sit opposite, brim full of twilight. They are such well appointed windows they bring on a Jane Austen fit. We do not rent, we take country lodgings. Bemused Dog scatters bits of defeated cardboard box.
Track the long extension lead to the kitchen, pull out the flex from behind the portable gas stove, the plastic plates and the sporks. Link up the stereo, here is my drawer of old vinyl. Nina Simone’s voice, pressed into plastic grooves, shaken out from the usefully shelfed alcove at the side of the fireplace, dances artfully over stuff we brought and haven’t found places for yet. Neither the old house nor the new looks convincingly inhabited. We could be going in either direction, at this point.
We are delighted to discover a bag of peanuts just as snackishness descends. Also, apple wine.
This morning: The bathroom’s brand new shower rail, curtain, rings, fresh from the shop white, reflect light so brightly we shrink before the blinding sight of it.
I need sunglasses to clean my teeth in here.
Mr plans to ship out to the supermarket in search of bread. We will have camping stove scrambled eggs. We will roll our car wheels between houses, over days, until the pivot tips.
Girl turns up, with Boyfriend and Baby and bread and bacon. We picnic. I secure a good tariff for the electric supply.
This afternoon: Sat at the pallet table, at the old house, on a break from packing, admiring the rampage of wild flora. Out at Number Three, our new country lodgings, it is still the kind of Middle Earth habitat that could spring an elf at you and not raise such surprise. But there is something about this savage prettiness, something zealously ephemeral, that I have not yet found in the new home, and will be seeking.