Yesterday, as I learned how to prepare then hang pencil-pleat curtains, I felt uncomfortably like Julianne Moore’s character in The Hours. As I interspersed work-work with setting up house, culminating in a bit of flat-pack assembly in the afternoon that made me feel like Jacob wrestling with a wooden angel, I kept thinking about that character, and felt sure that being a housewife would soon drive me totally stark raving mad. It’s not a judgment, just a personality thing.
I haven’t fully arrived here yet. The fella and I have been so busy setting up our home that I’ve been busy staying within the confines of our house. And, since it’s the first house I’ve lived in for ages, it doesn’t feel particularly confining. And there’s a lot to do, with more packages and appliances and services arriving daily.
Still, I will soon have to step outside. The thought of that makes me realise something else: besides Craig, I don’t know anyone here. I imagine that would freak a lot of people out, but I’m okay with it for a few reasons:
- It gives me big space to do my own stuff for the next little while.
- I’m sure we’ll know people soon enough. I have lots of past experiences of this — including a trans-Atlantic move — to back up this hunch.
- I’m still in regular contact with good friends and my family, thanks to the ‘net. That said, apologies if I’ve dropped the communication ball in the past few days; living in a house full of boxes and piles of things, with lots still missing (like a fridge!) is very disruptive. Order is coming to our house, though, slowly and surely.
