We moved today from the old family home, taking furniture and boxes and years of junk that I haven’t had time to throw away, to my new house over the seven bridge. Awoke to chaos and a big white van on the drive and the smell of bacon sandwiches.
Somewhere between lugging boxes and chasing the run-away dog back from up the street, and packing and clutching my still-in-agony stomach to stop it from bursting, and trying to stop mum from crying at the prospect of leaving, and talking in bad Welsh accents (because that always makes us laugh in my family) I missed a phone call. FTB. He’s got good timing. I was polite, sent a text saying sorry I’d missed him, that I was off to Spain tomorrow, had a long day ahead of me moving house, that I was needed to help.. and that, if it was alright with him, could I talk to him after my recuperating holiday.
When are you back?
In a week.
Begrudgingly – Ok, if you’re sure we can’t talk today?
I didn’t reply.
Don't Look Now
10 years ago
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