Don’t you just love irony? Especially when it happens to someone else. Well here’s your dose for today, my treat. I have just had a 20 ft container delivered and parked just outside my front door. Now, over the next three weeks, all my stuff will be packed up and stored in it. I’m pretty sure I’ll be needing another container. But this time there are a couple of differences: the container(s) is mine, so I’ll be able to access it any time (as if that would help), and it isn’t going anywhere.
“Why do I do it?” The used car salesman cries, whacking himself on the head for emphasis. Our used car ads are as bad here as everywhere else. I’ve always wondered why that is. Perhaps used car salesmen have a particular type of ego which requires that they make a goose of themselves on TV, and/or plaster their photo on the back end of a bus. Or maybe they just wanna save a buck. But I digress. The reason for my migration back to Containerville is that serious renovations are about to commence and everything must be out of the house. I’m now smiling smugly at all the boxes I’ve been climbing over and around, and cursing for months now. Smiling that I had the good sense–or inertia–to not unpack. I had sort of imagined that during the renovations stuff would just be moved from room to room, or even just to the middle of the room. But the Project has grown. It’s gonna be fabulous, but bigger than Boston.
The clever amongst you will have spotted the unmentioned fact that that I, too, will have to once again evacuate an empty house. This time I won’t be allowed to be a squatter in my own house, as I was in Fossil Cove. So once again I’ll be hitting the road. Stay tuned…
You are probably thinking that I haven’t even finished whining about un-packing the last lot and now I’m gonna be moaning about packing AND unpacking all over again. Thats pretty much it, I’d say. But at least when it’s all done–that should be before the end of the year– I’m going to get some more Chooks! Yeah! I’ll probably get Ella and Blossom, dearie, back from my son, Randall, plus a few more. My next door neighbors–the ones with the wandering cow–have some lovely hens, and a rooster who doesn’t know how to crow properly. He sounds like a guitar riff gone wrong. Sad, really. I sometimes watch them from my kitchen window, scratching around in the rich green grass under the big tree with the tire-hanging-on-a-rope swing, with black and white cattle grazing on the next hill over. Very charming and peaceful. Wilmot suits me.
Between sorting and packing over the next three weeks I’m going to be busy picking out things like tiles, ceiling roses, architraves, paint…oh, I’m having a ball with that part of it. Lately I’ve been having a bit too much fun tuning in to online auctions –especially art auctions, so it’s probably a good thing I now have something else to distract me. I was becoming a bit addicted. But all for a good cause. Somewhere in the new year I’ll have a gallery and tea room. Y’all come! MM