Seven days until I wont live in Brighton anymore. I wont even live in Britain anymore.
I love Brighton. Weve only been down here three years but Ive felt more at home, more settled, than I have before for a long long time. There are many many ugly things about the city – Im not denying it (what would be the point?) – but there are many lovely things about it too. But thats for another day.
Anyway. Seven days. Seven days and I wont live in Britain anymore.
I folded and piled the clothes we have left that werent in the wash on the end of the bed.
With only one suitcase left to fill to bring with us next week, I was suddenly struck by both the realisation that I may have thrown away too much and the feeling that I wanted to get rid of everything – everything – and just go.
I thought through the things that have gone off in lots and lots of bags and wondered whether it would be alright to go up to this nice little lady in the charity hut and say You know that nice little blue number I brought in yesterday? Can I have it back? before deciding it wouldnt and getting the hoover out instead.
Im going to go into the office tomorrow; force myself to sit at a desk staring at a computer where theres nothing to do but work; no packing, no sorting, and No Cleaning.
Because if in doubt, I clean things. Carpets, walls, cupboard doors, floor tiles, showers and everything in them. Throw things away, sort things out into neat little piles and stack them neatly, but most of all: clean.
If in doubt: clean.
Theres something wrong with me.
No one says that and enjoys it.
(Well, unless theyre trying not to think about lots of more scary things, of course)