Much Whinging.

Grandson and I have been reprising Harry Potter so that we’re in the mood for the next film when it comes out. As I can’t get to sleep at night for thinking of all the things I should be doing toward moving, the stories got mixed with present situation and in hynopompic state one morning it came to me that I am moving in to 6, Privet Drive, Little Whinging (or in my case , Much Whinging) just up the street from the Dursleys. Not that any of my new neighbours bear any resemblance to the Dursleys, either in looks of habits as far as I can tell, but for dramatic licence, to express my feelings, that is what I am calling the poor little house.

It now has a wooden floor in the living room and looks quite smart, though sadly the silly proportions haven’t changed. The living room will be, for me, mainly a dining room with a v. small après manger seating area, and my personal living space will be upstairs in what is a largish bedroom. The television, Mac, desk, couch and silly posters will gravitate there. Five large bookcases from the shop will fit around the ground floor space, one in the kitchen that will be adapted into a dresser. I’ve earmarked some cool half-curtains in the Gudrun Sjödén catalogue for upstairs windows to help eliminate the rooftop views.

So that’s that. Isn’t it?

If only it were that simple and a magic wand could be waved. I just know I’ll get in a panic trying to resituate the TV and get the plugs back in the right holes, then the computer - ditto panic and ill temper. All that unpacking, emptying and flattening cardboard, boxes, finding places for stuff. It will take weeks to settle.
What a fuss I’m making! How many times has Walled Garden moved in the last couple of years without making a fuss? I’m just out of practice.

Old age (or the end of middle age) is making itself painfully felt in the joints. There are two birthdays in Cornwall next week , son and youngest grandson. Then of course the four year old can’t be entirely forgotten. The Ex would (does) send them all money and lets the parents buy the children what they want. I can’t do that of course because I like the idea of them getting excited over parcels (yes, I know my son is 30+ but I still like to think I might warm his heart with proof of motherly love for a moment.) My daughter is too busy to get presents so hers have to be shopped for and then wrapped. Birthday paper and brown parcel paper had to be bought, spellotape located, the right size and shape of boxes, and lots of bubble-wrap (happily there is no shortage of either cardboard boxes or b-wrap here above the shop.) Wednesday afternoon saw me crawling about on the floor fighting a large fruit cake, a bottle of local whisky, a Gruffalo-faced Trunki (into which the other toys wouldn’t quite fit, naturally) touchy-feely books, sticker books for older child, craft stuff for older child, a drawing pad that needs no ink (you remember the sort except it’s all more high-tech these days and does different colours) a car that lights up and squeals, and - oh god, I hope I’ve got them in the right boxes or there are going to be some surprised faces in Hayle come All Saints day.

What with this crawling about and fighting and making five cakes I have been forced to drink quite a lot of whisky myself to keep me sweet.

Unfortunately the therapeutic whisky drinking was interfered with by a crisis over BP medication. Again. Another accompaniment to old age I suppose. Boots pharmacy handed me the usual box of Istin, one of the three drugs I take for the condition but - quelle horreur! - these were of foreign manufacture. My ankles blew up, my BP rose and I felt nauseous. I’m already the only person in the area who hasn’t managed to make do with the generic version of amlodipine, or so I’m told, and the brand my body likes is much more expensive. Now it seems I can only tolerate the British-made pill which is even dearer. Most embarrassing.I'm obviously bringing the country to its knees.

Also time consuming when I’ve got so much important worrying to be doing.