I have finally managed to get on top of my house move. Mercifully, this was the least stressful move in history. Very unlike the last time when I hired cowboys to move my stuff and my car broke down as I prepared to drive up to Scotland from Bristol. Moving is horrible. It reminds one of how much shite one surrounds oneself with. I mean.. did I really need yet another tea set/electric gadget/jumper/piece of furniture that never really fits anywhere?
We moved into a delightful little cottage, complete with wood stove that runs, well, everything really. Apparently the previous occupants could not get it to stay alight. This is because people, men in particular, have lost the ability to do the most fundamental bit of elemental magic...make fire. It is a piece of piss keeping a wood stove alight, but apparently this practice frightens and amazes the under-thirties. Much like my son, who joined us on holiday, and was completely confused by blankets and sheets, having never used anything but a duvet.
And we wonder why there are "dangerous cliff" signs on dangerous cliffs.