One night. One measly night was all Mini Seymour got to enjoy in her new room, in her own room, before she found herself, inexplicably, under a starched blue cellular blanket, atop waterproof sheets, in a ward at Brighton Hospital, wailing “I just want to be in my new bed!” and sobbing herself to sleep.
It seemed a gargantuan task, but last weekend, we kind of… moved in to The Funny Little Bungalow! Yes we did.
With a huge push and a little help from Bushboard, we FINALLY ended up with enough stuff to complete our worktops and on Friday evening we were able to install a kitchen tap at last!
On Saturday, Big Seymour tiled the walls, and we slowly but surely ferried our bits up the garden and into the house.
So stealthily, and without us actually planning it, the Funny Little Bungalow claimed us back from The Shed, in which we have dwelt for so long, thereby ending our love/hate, intense relationship with the wooden building at the bottom of the garden.
Meanwhile, the limp that Mini Seymour had been nursing all day had, by tea time, developed into a full on hop, with no weight-bearing going on at all, and so off to the hospital we set, confident we’d be back during the early hours, in good time to put the bins out. But no! Mini’s mystery illness kept her under the watchful eye of the doctors and away from her new bed. And when we finally retuned home, limping less but none the wiser, all of the rubbish I had gleaned on my Sunday of moving stuff was still in the sodding bin on the driveway. A mere minor inconvenience, but as I’d had little sleep, it did make me feel like I was failing at life, especially as I DIDN’T FRICKIN’ KNOW WHERE ANYTHING WAS and I was all discombobulated again.
During the week, things have settled down, and we have started to work out where to put stuff. The Four Little Seymours have really enjoyed setting up their bedrooms, and I have tried out seven potential cupboards for plates alone. I think I may have finally settled on The Plate Cupboard, but I reserve the right to change my mind.
As for The Shed, I was very sad, actually, the leave it. We didn’t know when it would occur, as it was all worktop-dependent – there was no official date. When it finally happened, there was no fanfare, no real celebration. We just moved out. The Shed has looked after us, and we love it. It drove us mad, but we were cosy in there. And three days after we sealed our fate by taking our bed out of it for the last time, I found myself ruminating in The Shed and I had a revelation: we might not live in it any more, but the old place is still there! We don’t have to say goodbye.
Dear Old Shed, thank you! You have been amazing.
Not quite the bed she had planned!
0 Comments