I didn't develop a black eye, I didn't have concussion (or a scalp wound, or fainting, or hallucinations, or memory loss, or a need for emergency admission to hospital). I just needed to stop the haphazard, reluctant, slightly resentful, somewhat frazzled, utterly disorganised activity that was getting me nowhere, and to have a cup of tea, sit down for a while, stop being so dramatic, and have an early night.
So today, have I had a productive and well-organised bout of packing? No.
Have I packed anything at all today? No.
Do I care? No.
Well, packing up a life after 30 years in this house is quite a taxing job on every level, and it's all too easy to find excuses to put it off.
PS A Somerset estate agent (not my vendor) sent me details of 21 properties today. 21! And they were all, every one of them, most definitely not for me. No, no, no. Many of them were painted peppermint green or Germolene pink. All had weirdly-elongated doors due to abuse of the wide-angled lens; I'm not fooled. Count a row of the the kitchen floor tiles and you can work out that they extend to 5 feet across, not 15. The word 'super' featured frequently; estate agents have their own peculiar take on the common adjective. Super house; super garden; super kitchen; super material to crumple into a ball and hurl at the wall.....