There was a book that The Girls loved me to read to them: a re-issued Ladybird version of The Three Little Pigs. Leaving aside for one minute the culture of entitlement that allowed these feckless piggies to ask of honest tradesmen "Please will you give me some *******? I want to build a house for myself", it was quite a fun tale to huff and puff through.
I feel like the third pig. Built my brick house, and I'm all inside with the wolf nicely bubbling away in a pot on the stove. (Actually it was pasta with a creamy mushroom sauce and mixed leaves, but let's allow some licence.) So once you've had your wolf stew, wolf pie, wolf on toast and then wolf rissoles, what next?
The first seven months of living here have been devoted to finding bricks and evading the wolf. Now there is space to think about what to put in the house. Not a Billy bookcase or new plump cushions - you know what I mean.
It's time to start building a proper life here, now. Although I say there is no homesickness, in my heart I am still pulled back, quite a lot. This will probably go in time, but I need to put my heart here. And other parts.