Space balls

Houston, we have a hoarding problem. All removal companies have told us off for having way too much rubbish. I’m getting loads ready to trash, donate or sell but it’s like dismantling Marina Bay Sands with a fork and spoon, in a lightning storm.

I caught myself doing the Oxford Street Swerve today – Londoners will know it. It’s where you’re in a big rush and you have to thread your way through the herd of hundreds of slow-moving tourists to get from A to B. I had to physically slow myself down when I cut across the park at the back of Somerset 313 and almost knocked someone over in my hurry to get to the bus stop to catch the No 36 home in time for the dishwasher fixer to sort out our leak before the piano lesson commenced, which left me half an hour to sort through some sale stuff for buyers to look through this week, before putting in an hour of work before rehearsing our two new songs for tonight’s choir practise, and then the three new songs for Saturday’s other choir concert.

It’s because we’re working towards a scary timescale. Next week we leave for our Easter trip to NZ (our fault for having another holiday, granted). When we get back Mr PC will have just three days in Sing before he leaves for London. There is an insurmountable load of Stuff to sort and we are orbiting the epicentre in ever-decreasing circles, flying faster and faster into the centre of the rubbish pile.

Mister sat down with me last night and sighed into his tumbler of whisky (a valiant effort to empty the drinks cupboard), ‘What’s the worst that can happen if it doesn’t all get sorted before July? We just pack it all up and take it with us.’

So I’m apologising to my inner tidy person (the one who rarely gets an airing) because she’s not going to be happy with the crap that’s going into our twenty-footer.

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