Starting with most recent events first, we had a murder locally this week. And not just a domestic violence one of the sort that barely get a mention on the news, a full-on, road closed for two days, two forensics tents up, stabbing and cars screeching away kind of murder. This was 200 metres or so from the old house, 450 from the new. The poor unfortunate turned out to be a local 19 year old, with, it's fair to say, not a wholly unblemished record of adherence to the law of the land. Still, he didn't deserve the fate of being found on a cold wet road with a knife wound, and enduring the last moments of life having his chest pumped by desperate police and paramedics. Someone has been charged with his murder, so no doubt the full story will emerge in due course. It is, however, just not the sort of thing that happens round here, so the locals have found it quite shocking.
I'm not doing much exercise at the moment, through a combination of the rotten weather, the chaos that reins post-moving house, and the related inaccessibility of my bicycles. A few runs here and there, but my fitness is on a bit of a downward trajectory at the moment. I'm not especially bothered; as long as I don't give up entirely I know that I usually come back just before or after Christmas quite enthusiastically.
Talking of Christmas, the 30th of December is now booked as the date when Mrs M and the cat emigrate, for three months at least anyway. Me and the good lady will drive down to Portsmouth for the ferry across in separate cars, and six days later I shall return home on my own, which will be quite strange. It'll be even more strange now that Ryanair have, annoyingly, decided to stop running the East Mids to Dinard flight, for the winter months at least. There are plenty of other ways for me to get across to Brittany, but that one was the most time-efficient, and cheapest, so my Channel hops might be a little less frequent.
And so to the house move. We've moved in. But I think the move has only just started. We've lost 23% of the floor space at the old place, and have got stuff everywhere. We've simply got too much furniture, and quite a bit of what we have got isn't the right shape or size. We knew all that before we moved of course, but you still have to figure out the solutions when you move in. The biggest temptation I've got to resist is getting rid of stuff before I've had the chance to live with it. I suspect it's going to take a year or more to get thplace as we want it, and longer than that to fine-tune it to the point where everything runs like clockwork. All that feels like a right hassle, but as I keep telling myself, it's all part of a longer term plan.
Right, my attention has now been diverted away from putting up shelves and emptying boxes for long enough, so I better hasten away back to domestic hell.
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