Three and a half years

It's been three and a half years now, since my Ex exited.

The sense of disruption is still here. I wonder how long it will take to go away.

I have just been visited by Olga - I bid at a pledges evening for her to come and help me with my garden.  She was widowed, many years ago. Over a cup of Earl Grey and a fig roll, she mused that of course I will still feel unsettled.  The sense of not sure whether you're coming or going remains for a long time, following on from a couple of years of  of shock, bewilderment and disbelief, she told me.

I'm feeling like this because I've been wondering why I find myself living alone with two children, in a five-bedroomed house twenty minutes from a pint of milk, with so many bedrooms that I have to rent most of them out to make ends meet. Potty. Especially when Revered Son would much prefer to live on a main road  with buses, near friends, cinemas and coffee shops. Maybe even London, but being a Dartmoor hillbilly, he is still nervous of crossing the road, asking for things in shops, the underground, and being mugged. When the children were little, playing I Spy, they would regularly say, "I spy something beginning with 'H'.  The answer was 'House'.

My sense of disruption is caused by considering whether I should move.  But no. I think I belong here now. I've promoted myself, after 17 years, from 'Blow In' to 'Incomer', and know most of the people I drive past. Revered Son will just have to learn to enjoy walks, while Beloved Daughter's riding skills must continue on their rapid upward trajectory.

Meanwhile Olga says I have a very nice woodland garden.  She is going to come back and plant some 'drought pots' to give it some colour after the initial Spring flourish. Meanwhile I must ask Patrick to come over and pick up sticks, and rake up leaves.  We are 'all systems go' before my first guests arrive!