THIS time next week I won't know myself. As we speak, the container of all our worldly goods is sitting docked at Melbourne port waiting for customs and quarantine officers to rifle through it.
We've moved into the new house that we've signed up to rent until the new year and all is good. Apart from the fact that I have just one saucepan, a grill tray and four tiny glasses to work with.
Even Nigella Lawson'd have trouble knocking out a wholesome family meal with that equipment.
The plate inside the microwave doubles up nicely as a serving dish for salad as long as the iceberg's not piled up too high and the fish slice, although a little difficult, is fully utilised as a potato masher when the opportunity presents itself. It's like camping but without the trailer tent.
At least when we were away in our trailer tent, the boys were elevated as they slept. All they have in their spacious new bedrooms is a linen basket for their persistently sand-filled socks and a single airbed that deflates during the small hours. They look like little boys lost when we tuck them in each night ... not that there's anything much to tuck in yet ... still waiting for their duvets to show up too.
This house is vast. It probably looks even more so due to the lack of stuff but we're getting there slowly.
Some new kids on the block moved in down the road yesterday and we watched them take charge of their UK stash from the back of an international removal company's truck. We sat there from our commanding position looking down all gog-eyed and needy like children in a candy shop with no money.
I can't wait for my belongings to get here. Having packed it all up in November, I can't for the life of me remember what's going to show up here. Most missed upto now are our lovely comfy settees that we haven't seen for the past four odd months. It will be a reunion made in squishy-soft-leathery heaven!
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