I am itching, absolutely itching to move into my new house. We haven't even exchanged contracts yet (there's no great delay or problem as far as I know, so it should be any day now), but although I tell myself that in a few weeks I will have all the time in the world to measure for curtains, think about the garden, rejig the kitchen and arrange the furniture and so on, I want to do it all NOW!
It's funny how you can make a connection with a house after seeing it for only 30 minutes. I've now visited Awkward Hill Cottage three times, and each time I go, I feel at home. My shoulders relax, my breathing slows and the world seems a much more beautiful place.
It's not that I dislike London. On the contrary, I think it's the best city in the world - the most beautiful, the most glamorous, with the most to offer in terms of theatre, restaurants and shopping. (I'm biased, of course!)
However, for me, life in London has become a bit of a Catch-22 - I have to work in order to be able to afford to live here, but if I work, especially the sort of hours that daily newspaper life dictates, I don't have time to take advantage of all it has to offer. And I'd like to slow down a bit, to have time to stand and look at my garden as well as scamper round tidying it up. For garden, also read life.
In the meantime, my old house feels rather like a big hotel, one in which the guest has to do all the work. The children's rooms are stripped of their posters and paraphernalia - they've both now departed for university - while the hall and landings seem to be full of piles of clean bedding. I'm gradually working my way through the house and laundering all the sheets and towels I can find (and believe me, I've found some in some funny places...).
I'm consoling myself by ordering fabric samples, and kitchen brochures, and books on keeping chickens. And dreaming of what life will be like in Gloucestershire.