Now

This diary of mine has been the witness or repository – whichever word you prefer – of many important events in my life. Of course, plenty of episodes that are meaningful and momorable to me are not recorded here, especially the happier ones, because I was too lazy or too busy to record them. I will inscribe my life, so far as I can in retrospect, at some point in the future, in the eternal hope that I remain in good health, but now is not that time – in fact, now is yet another point of tumult, but one which, though it offers much, perhaps being less than exalting, I feel fit to record at the time (didya like all those fancy words?)

I am moving. I have moved before. This time is much more meaningful and much scarier, because there is no return planned. When I went away, abroad, to university or to work or study abroad, there was always a family home to return to, and a point of return. Now no such thing is guaranteed, and that is important to me.

I have only moved house once in my life. That is, my family home, the seat of my self and my ultimate point of return. I have been away, as I say, but this has been the place I have returned to repeatedly, and (so I believed), eternally. Those people who have moved house a few times, or more, during their youth, probably can’t understand this, but to have a home, a navel, a central point of reference, is very much a part of me, of my psychology, or whatever you like. When, two years ago nearly, my mother informed me that my father wanted a divorce, and that the family home was to be sold, I was in some way bereft – the place I never imagined would be inaccessible became just that – potentially.

So I never expected it to take this long. Real life is always messier than imagination, but this takes the biscuit – my parents are still just flirting with divorce, and similarly discuss getting back together. The house cannot be sold, for many very practical reasons, for many more months. I still believe it will be sold, however. I do not think that is intrinsically a bad thing, but the central point remains – my home is to be sold.

And there is no obvious replacement. If my parents get back together, I am still (in part wantonly) estranged from my father, and any home they may make together in the futurer will not be open to me, even if it is (if you follow me). If they finally separate, my mum’s home will be too small to house any of my stuff (I have too much stuff, and have been trying to get rid of a lot of it since my brother came a couple of weeks ago, but I will still have a surplus when I am finished, no matter how ruthless I am). I will put my stuff into storage, most of it, but it’ll be a long time before I have a place of my own that is permanent enough to warrant the unpacking/rehabilitation of most of it. I’ll miss my home comforts…

Now, I have just tried two new foods – pigeon and snipe (a small wading bird). Game has never been on the menu at home, at even though Oxford’s Covered Market contains a great deal of fine fare in the right season, I never bought it. I have been trying a great many new foods – or at least, new recipes – since I finished work a few weeks ago, but that was the most extreme. They were nice, but taste to me rather like duck – in which case, is it worth the effort?

My weight is fairly low, historically, but I want to lose another stone. A boozy night out like Saturday, and the concommittant day of binge-eating that follows, mean I have stalled awhile, but now I must ask, after a fair amouth of Rioja and Madeira…. Shall I go out tonight?

I’ll let you know how it goes… x