Pickford’s pill. This is our shorthand for rearranging furniture. You do get funny little ways as you get older and some might say there’s none funnier than us?
I must confess I am still in a state of shock at what we have left behind and what we are now living in. The old mantra location, location, location, I totally get... or do I? I wander around looking out to sea looking the very picture of a forlorn Grace Darling.
Sitting in the armchair knocking this out, I look one way to the sun on the sea,
the other to this...
a picture of our old cottage
delivered by a friend yesterday.
The shock at the difference was writ large on their faces.
I have today determined to be positive and get my treasures out.
Hang pictures on the wall, no
worries that the sun will fade
them. By which time I will be
dead and gone. The bare, perfectly
flat walls give me the
heebie-jeebies I even idly thought fondly of moths... I didn’t say that!
Today, I am tackling the second bedroom, which I grandly call my workroom. The simple truth is no work gets done in there, well a little light ironing on occasion.
This determination came about yesterday when two moths put in an appearance. At the sight the apathetic blood crawling round my veins was galvanised into action, sweeping all crud before it. I was on a mission. There was suddenly a purpose to my life by the sea; although I know what a sad state of affairs all this must present... horses for courses and all that!
My ‘workroom’ is taking shape, winter clothes are stashed away in boxes, summer clothes are out.
The girl’s on a mission.