If I look up from whatever task is in hand, I get snow blind. And it's not even snowing. Panic descends like a really good avalanche. So; concentrate. I never knew I had so much stuff in my kitchen. Ten pairs of chopsticks. Enough knives to run away and join a knife-throwing act. I've thrown out the big carving knife, very carefully. It's the one my mum used to threaten my dad with; the one he used to sharpen on the back step. I can't even touch it, let alone use it.
All the time I'm thinking "what can I leave unpacked?". What this means - and I'm sure you who have moved will know this - is that there will be one last box that you chuck everything in. The miscellaneous one that will hold some dirty knickers, a cup, a plate, tea bags, and kettle. Dustpan and brush, probably.
My outdoor fridge has worked splendidly well. London wildlife has scorned my feta, my rocket and my milk. I have been playing fast and loose and not even hanging it in a bag.
I have now been coughing like an absolute bastard for eleven days. You would think that this, and the lack of cooking facilities, would have meant a tragic weight loss. No.
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