They are loading the truck. Not much is left in the house.
My living room after just one day of movers
So it seems that no one in this town wants my money. Well, not nobody, but nobody in places where I thought I would need to spend it. My mechanic says my car is good to go; he didn’t charge for the time he took to look things over. Today the lady at the Apple store said eh, buy a phone in France; the unlocked phones are really too expensive. Then she showed me how to change the SIM card in my old phone. It’s not what I’m used to, for sure, but it’s certainly nice.
Seriously, the movers will be here the day after tomorrow. I will spare you the sight of utter chaos, though it’s actually not as chaotic as it was a week ago. More things have been packed and sorted. Friends have scavenged their way through the reject piles. I think the movers will not care that it was so much worse last week.
Well, so, I thought it might be nice to move to France. I thought so for years, which I thought more or less automatically made it a good idea. It does, doesn’t it? I studied French and spent a lot of time in France, close to six months a year for the last few years. I chose an area to check out, just to see. I sent a sort of loose, noncommittal inquiry to these people who seemed nice and professional. They sent me to Jacqueline, who asked a few questions and sent back a photo of this house. I was hooked. Hooked, I say. One visit to the house, one glance at the inspection reports and I bought it. Let’s hope it works out.
Reader. Author. Narrowboater. Lives in England.
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