Will this house ever have its survey carried out? Only then - well, actually, only after the survey report has been received and accepted by doctor-in-a-hurry-with-the-slowest-mortgage-provider-in-the-world, will I feel confident about the entire house-moving carry on.
We are living in cardboard box land; removers' boxes with some other family's labelling: towels, clipper set. We don't have a clipper set, but we do have an awful lot of linen. And china. And fabric. And books. And cat beds. And attitude from the cats.
Millie sits above the front door a lot.
Lottie follows me everywhere.
As do the boxes.
It's not pleasant, living like this, half-packed, preparing to go, yet without a time frame for any of it. The house looks terrible; messy, chaotic, disorganised, like my thoughts. I veer from my usual mantra: "All will be well" to stabbing anxiety: "What if it doesn't work out?"
A small scream sounds in my head from time to time, and is fed with chocolate; it won't do to put weight on now - my roomier clothes are in those boxes.
Must try harder.