Sunday, 1 January 2012

Living In A Box

Apologies for lack of cheery new year wishes.  My Doris Day impression is at the cleaners.

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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