The weapon of mad (and angry, and dangerous) destruction has been tearfully* decommissioned. Who knows when again we shall see its’ like again? From the skewed priority list recently wafted under my financial snout, the workshop/drinking den/MTB Guantanamo Bay occupies a lowly position in terms of new house** projects.
Sure you all know – and I could argue – that the construction of a shrine to the tool wall is FAR more important than fixing the heating before winter and buying beds for the kids, but Carol is a woman on the edge right now. Any more stressed, and it’ll be on the ledge and ready to jump.
This house is ours for only one day more. For all the happy memories we have of the old place, here and now we’re really starting to hate it. There is nothing left in terms of living stuff but half filled boxes and no emotions other than blind panic.
But a quick reflective glance confirms that no room is the same size or even shape when compared to the house we moved into. It has more roofs and none of them leak. The heating works in seasons other than summer, the garden is a riot of colour and the barn is no longer a dilapidated shack.
We bought most of a wreck and transformed it – over ten years – into something we really wanted to live in. And, at about that precise moment, decided to sell it. So while that made some kind of grown up sense back then, right now it sits firmly between sadness and guilt.
Still, there is little point in moping. This move is 32 wheeled, 50 ton sodding juggernaut and it’s going to roll me flat unless I get my shit together, and start helping.
I have a ‘private’ picture of the tool wall which I’m keeping in my wallet. That’s ok isn’t it?
* because – in a final act of tool brutality – the claw hammer embedded its’ pointy end in my knee,. This followed a doomed attempt to prize it from the position of authority it merited in the centre of the tool wall.
** We’ve set an optimistic deadline of moving in 21st of June. I’ve never seen a solicitor laugh before 🙁