The burglary, and then a lovely but exhausting weekend in Yorkshire (for a lovely family wedding in the middle of nowhere) has left me with few words to string together. Mind you I always say that don't I, and then go on to write screeds.
At the moment I'm about 80% certain I want to move, and am starting to make noises in that direction. I keep expecting to come home and find they've been in again, although there is nothing much to take. There are other things bothering me - the washing machine, with its attendant fetid lake in the cellar, has now stopped working completely, and nearly ate my clothes. I had to use my keys to get the washing machine door open. And four large things that I am expecting in the post have all not turned up. This, along with my front door which apparently is made of FAIL, goes to make up a feeling of real malaise and general shitness.
Still, Yorkshire was absolutely gorgeous and if I ever get the urge to return to England, Yorkshire it will be. The scenery, the people, it was all lovely. I did nearly kill a dog, but it was all right. The dog was lying in a bar of sunshine, which was also shining in my eyes, and I was concentrating on the tray of coffee I was carrying. The rest is comedy platinum.
Having your stuff and your peace of mind nicked is never a good thing, but it's worked like sort of adrenalin on a stopped heart. The shock of it has made me want to be out there, not in here. In here is not my sanctuary any more. We'll see how that pans out.