Eight weeks to pack and unpack

Eight weeks to go until we move. Somehow, I’m quite happy about it all – it was essentially my idea in the first place – but the fact it’s coming so soon does worry me. Not only do we have to clear the house, and the loft (which hasn’t been touched for 30+ years) but we haven’t found anywhere to live! And I’m off to the big smoke – on the pathetic salary I find myself on, this will not be easy.

The prospect of living with strangers does not appeal, one little bit. I’m not unsocial, or anti-social – or whatever the term is – but living with people I don’t know very well, or at all, is a concept I can’t yet grasp! Still waiting on a friend to see if he’ll be able to make it – we would have such a brilliant, drunken time if we got a flat, but alas it’s unlikely to happen.

And meanwhile, going through some things from the loft I came across some stuff from my Dad; piles of letters he wrote to Mum, and her to him, which have been quite fascinating. We hold our parents in high regard (I do, anyway) – slightly mythical people, with a wisdom and intelligence far beyond ours. Or so we thought. These letters, written in their 20s, were just as dull and hopelessly love-stricken as I’d expect I would write to my girlfriend. “I suspect you’re tired after your long drive? Nevermind, have a nice rest and you’ll feel fine in the morning.”

People don’t change much, really, do they?