Another Moving Experience

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.