The first day of the rest of our lives

We’re really here.  It sounds rather idyllic, on the sofa in front of the wood burner in the sitting room, with my husband on the other cushion, just and arm’s length away, and my gorgeous daughter who couldn’t sleep curled up between us snoring gently.  The reality is a little different. 

I’m sitting forward to type, which means that soon Ian will be too cold to type any longer.  The Omani power station will probably have some rather erratic financial objectives thanks to his numb fingers.  Ruth’s toes are so cold I can still feel their mark on my thigh 20 minutes after she’s wriggled away.  The fender is in front of the hearth, but a few feet to the left of the fire, perfectly placed to bruise ankles.  Bookshelves in the middle of the room.  Boxes everywhere.  A lampshade on the mantel that glistens with cobwebs.  The umbrellas warming themselves by the stove.  Oriana’s activities abandoned around us.  It’s really, really cold.  We don’t drink hot tea here; it doesn’t exist.  The room is vast; it will never be warm.

But it’s great. 

I cannot believe we could swap our standard London terrace for all this space.  It takes 47 paces from the bookshelf in the guest room to the bookshelf in the study.  I am getting fit just moving books.

We’ve been moving in since Wednesday and now we’re finally here.  Two guys packed all day on Wednesday, filling the house with boxes.  Mum thought the girls would be bored and might prefer television.  They weren’t bored.  They were climbing over and tunneling through the assault course of boxes that filled the ground floor.

On Thursday the boxes started arriving here.  And flowers did too, from our new neighbours.  The kindness brought tears to my eyes.

The movers left.  Ian and Ruth turned up.  Ruth euphoric with her new uniform.  Leaping around the sofas in blue and gold, thrilled with her new school.  By the time the new uniform made it back to show Granny and Oriana it was rather furry. 

Friday.  A school trip, packed lunches, and one last day dressed in red.  I unpacked all day, leaving Ian supervising the final boxes, the contents of the garage, the stuff from Mum and Dad’s.  I had just finished the final kitchen box, when they arrived with more.  More of everything arrived, even more for the kitchen.  The cupboards are a little shallower and shorter than modern ones.  Bottles are too tall, plates too wide.  The mugs are miles from the tea, the wooden spoons from the stove and the serving bowls don’t yet have a home at all, but we are making progress.  We will get there.

Another neighbour bearing gifts – rock cakes.  I devoured almost all of them.  What did she make of me, whispering my introductions?  Could she hear me at all?  Will word spread that the new lady cannot speak?  Will my voice come back soon?  It’s been a week already. 

Our first post-furniture guests.  They didn’t take their coats off.  Very wise.  But Melanie was here at the very beginning.  We were staying with her when the frantic messages started arriving saying we must cut our bank holiday short to see this house.  She looked at those first internet images with us.  It feels right she should have been the first to see us in-situ.

The beds are made.  I am yawning.  I cannot hide from the cold forever.  If Ian could swim Alcatraz in skin, then I can run the race to my bed and go skin… at least long enough to replace my clothes with a few layers of pyjamas and socks.

The first load arrives