As I write, un pauvre homme is trudging up and down three flights of stairs with my boxes. I am finally out of storage. There are a terrifying number of boxes and I suspect I may have to give a lot more stuff away. I feel quite guilty not helping homme 1 and homme 2 but they will be getting a substantial wodge of cash in hand shortly. And a glass of water if I feel kind.
A fair bit of today's proceedings have been conducted in French. A wobbly and slightly rubbish French, but nonetheless French. But I'm tired now and am just smiling at them and pointing. And have escaped to my computer corner upstairs. I am playing the lady of the house for once.
I have no sentimental feelings about most of my stuff, but as homme 1 put on his little trolley the overmantle mirror that was in my parents' house for at least 50 years I watched it carefully, wishing it a safe journey. It has arrived intact. I used to stand perilously close to the gas fire in my nylon nightie looking in that mirror, and used to wonder if I could see a murder happening in it from a long time ago like in Dead of Night.