I'm averaging 4 hours sleep per night at the moment, looking in my head all night for a place for me and my two Offsprogs to live. Should we squash into two up two down and keep our things in storage, or live miles from anywhere (by that I mean night buses) and be able to breathe?
I know every estate agent in the world now, good or evil, and I'm simultaneously balancing on quicksand and fighting off sharks.
Good news follows bad news follows good news and it's been a long time since I have felt so utterly controlled by other people and their agendas.
I make a mental note of things to sell or give away, in a descending order of not-minding and minding. At the moment, I am throwing away huge quantities of papers that seemed vitally important when there was room to keep them. I have to spend equal time talking to people I can't stand and people I love, trying to balance their effect on my mental state. There isn't time to play music, and if there was there wouldn't be the mental concentration there. I make tea, then make more tea and realise I've made myself some already. I know the contents of my bank account to the merest fraction of a potential penny and my guitars are all sucking up to me in case I sell them. The harmonium's going, but not the piano: if necessary I shall sleep on top of it. Luckily, the largest bits of furniture are not mine, but I seem to own three tables and no comfortable chairs. I have become addicted to halva and bananas. I went to work by accident today and just had to come home, sheepishly slinking into the house when the Offsprogs weren't looking. I'm piling up stuff to wishfully put on eBay, while accepting that it will all probably go to the Oxfam Shop because nobody wants it except me and the Oxfam harvesters. Which books can I do without? The thousand Rebus novels I know I will read again or the academic books that make me feel important? Will my boxes of Helen and the Horns albums melt in the storage place?
Will we be living somewhere else by Christmas?