We’re camping out in the house now. There’s four mugs, a couple of dinner plates. A towel or two apiece. A pot, frying pan and baking dish. Two laptops, a couple paperbacks, a television that will soon be made redundant, the 4th season of Peep Show, some garden chairs and a wobbly old table. Suitcases as nightstands. And all our musical equipment – we have a gig in Le Dorat on Saturday.
The rest has made it up to England. Like a modern divorce where everyone co-operates, this is a modern house sale – the new owner came down with a load of stuff before the final completion date, and offered to take a load for us. Shipping from France is complicated – of all the ports in this country, right now only one will do container shipping of personal goods so getting space is difficult and expensive. So we go through England – that’s where we’ll put everything in a container for the US.
Packing has been all-consuming, that and healing. I’m going back to the fine doctor in Bordeaux tomorrow, hoping that he’ll give me the okay to put makeup on.
It’s been pretty bizarre, having a nurse come to the house every other day. I feel like I should be wearing a turban and being taken out for a spin in a wheelchair. Feeling guilty about using what feels like a luxury, I’d asked at the hospital if they couldn’t just show me how to take care of things myself. They insisted that it was more consistent with an infirmiere. I can see now that it also helps keep someone in employment in rural France. In a few days I’ll say goodbye to her. Then we’ll have a little get-together with our friends and neighbors, and the new owners. Strange, melancholy, exciting, terrifying. Did I say exciting?
Two months ago it was “will we outlast the bottle of balsamic?” – now it’s the expiration date on the milk bottle. We’ll be going off before it does.