It is all fine.
Exactly as it should be, except I took the decision to pack my life into those reinforced supermarket bags which adequately hold tinned tomatoes, but somehow buckle and fall apart at the mere suggestion of books and radios and chargers and medicine and Christ, the number of pairs of tights I seem to have accumulated.
Not great at packing. Worse at goodbyes. Worse too at imagining how I will possibly be happy in a new city/new life/ new career.
The only quotes about bravery that I can ever recall come from Lady MacBeth – on killing a king, and Rudyard Kipling – on being a good man of the Empire. Neither seem quite to fit.
This is an interim: I understand limbo better now, why it would be such a frightening place to be stuck. Purgatory. There is pleasure in motion but this motion isn’t quite underway yet, like a ship taking hours and hours to slip harbour.
All of the packing is a prayer: I hope this is the right decision. I hope I am not too lonely, too long.
And everyone is being heart-batteringly kind.
Ah! Onwards, upwards, smiling and with my hands creased from running bags up and down the stairs.
Sometimes I think the reason I’m hobbit-shaped, is to remind me how to be brave.