This weekend has been a quiet one; a not unwelcome change after the action of the last. We had a nice walk in Stoke Wood amongst the new season’s leaves and bluebells before retiring to the garden (if mostly under shade) for a sit, a write, a doze, and a barbeque. I have possibly the oddest bbq in the world, with a rusted base that you can see though where the charcoal goes and wobbily-unstable legs. The food tasted good, and even the insides of the baked potatoes once we’d cracked the charcoal shell that their skins had become.
Emma’s applied for a job at a Bicester vets tonight. Which is all a bit scary. We kind of figured that with the housing market somewhat as stuffed as luxury fig, someone had to take a proactive step. Whilst Em took an afternoon snooze, I sat in the garden and drew out a plan of my own house and rearranged a reduced set of both our furniture in the house, and then later, as the charcoal got itself going we figured it out. If were to make use of my parents lovely new garage, we could store the rest of our furniture and stuff until such time as we were able to put it all back together again.
It feels good to have a plan, but its also dead scary for all concerned. And quite what its going to be like living with five cats in a one-bedroom house is going to be like, I don’t know.