Getting worse before it gets better

Every room in the house is in a mess of some sort. The boxes are piling up very satisfactorily, although it's still a shambles, mostly because a packed and sturdy box tends not to fit into the (spotlessly clean) cupboard that once held its contents. Sandra comes in every day and helps; she is completely undistractable, and we get immense amounts done, without stopping to read emails or pop out for biscuits. It's nice to spend so much time with her. Margery came for the last time today, before she goes on holiday; she has been my weekly cleaner for about 20 years, and we said a stiff-upper-lipped goodbye so that she wouldn't collapse entirely.

I am tired, tired, tired; my neck hurts, my back hurts, my nails are wrecked, and I am thoroughly sick of the sight of my own belongings, wondering why I'm bothering to take most of them.

The dogs trot round after me, interested, unsettled, trying to lure me away to play. The boy cats hide. Lottie and Millie, my constant companions and supervisors, work in shifts.

I was so dozy this morning that I accidentally medicated myself with Tosca's painkiller instead of my own blood-pressure diuretic; both are small white pills. Just as well it wasn't the other way round, I suppose. My cruciate ligament (left back leg) coped well, I found, with all the stairs I've climbed, up and down, all day....

The new sofa was delivered today - flatpack - with a footstool (and a new computer chair: why do you always come out with more than you went into Ikea for?). I'm going for washable removable covers this time round, although when it came down to fabric choice, I chose the dry-cleanable covers, which I shall risk with a cool wash when the time comes that the cat sick and dog drool stains reach unbearable density.

When the current sitting room furniture is redistributed amongst friends next week, I shall assemble it here, as Ikea is closer to me in Newcastle than where I'm moving to, and I don't relish the idea of a 4-hour round trip to Bristol just to collect a missing bolt.

This is hard, getting ready to move in such a short timescale, after so many dreary and anxious months of waiting. But I'm not complaining.

The surveys of the cottage come back positive; nothing unexpected, given its age, and no remedial work required, although the vendor's insurers will poke a camera down the drains just to make sure.The vendor (such a nice woman! and unlike the last ones, genuine in her desire to make my move easy, smooth and speedy) writes to me, and I to her; if she were a neighbour, and not a previous owner who lives elsewhere, we would be good friends, I think.

She tells me why the cottage bears its name - after her old cat; how delightful is that?  - that there are frogs and toads in the garden, that anything grows there, that the house was a squalid stinking wreck when she fell in love with it 14 years ago and saw past the dog faeces throughout to the lovely tranquil home that she and her partner would create. He died last year just before they could retire to it, and she is glad that someone who loves it (and cats) will be living there soon.

She says that in autumn, when the neighbour's trees drop their leaves, I will be able to see the sea from my bedroom.

One week and three days to go.....