(Insert drum roll of suspense here.) It may be three weeks before the internet follows us to the new address. According to the cheerful conviction of a call centre lady, we can maintain a phone line at the old address. Until the end of July we will have access to both houses: we can keep an office at Rosehill, and homely quarters at Lawhitton*. Feasibly leading to delusions of landowning grandeur, and some classic misunderstandings of who is where and why.
Rich in comedy is the practiced silver lining detector.
Not so mired in positivism that I can’t admit life can be awkward, however. There is still a potential for absence, in the often incommunicative communications infrastructure, it may be that an absentminded data entry gets the Rosehill phone snipped off. I may appear to have disappeared from the blogosphere but, dear readers, do not fear. A technical hiccup, merely.
|A picture of affectionate tolerance|
I am sat on the sofa, writing this, next to Boy, who is listening to Red Dwarf on Radio Four, when I could be upstairs, in the cloistered silence of my cupboard or, more likely, sat on the bed gaining ethereal inspirations from the cloud pressed view.
We’re not exactly communicating, though he does ask for the occasional spelling. We’re not exactly absent either.