This is how things stand at my new house. There are three buildings: all mudbrick, all gorgeous. There's a river at the bottom of the garden, and possibly also fairies. Or at least foxes.
The main house is slowly losing its chaotic camping-out look. The other two buildings (what will be my study in one long gallery building, and my girlfriend's study in her own little two-story cottage) are no-go zones. Instead of having a spare room, we have spare buildings: spare in that moving house sense, that non-militarised zone where you put all the boxes you haven't yet unpacked, and exchange hostages. And since I can't unpack books, because we have to paint the walls, that's an awful lot of intact boxes.
I'm trying not to think about the garden - it's too daunting. But I wandered around this morning and made lots of new discoveries, even an old telephone pole all alone among the paperbarks, and you can hear the river splatting across the rapids from everywhere. Still, we have been generously endowed with several of the more notorious noxious and environmental weeds which will take some beating. I'm not feeling quite as organic as usual.
My girlfriend's still on the other side of the sea, but my housemates so far include Maurice Sendak the mouse (and extended family), two small bats, several brazen rabbits, and Kevin the ringtail possum; I just surprised him performing a high-wire feat across the phone line and he froze with one of those hilarious "I'll just stay very still and she won't even know I'm here" expressions. I suppose I should continue the theme and call him/her Mem Fox. But he looks like a Kevin.
My pest control measures so far have been limited to shouting: "Maurice, get the hell out of there!" or "Warren (a rabbit, of course), what do you think you're doing?" They never reply. They just stare at me and sigh.
It's been impossible to write here so far, although I did have a brief burst on a picture book text: but anything else has simply got to take a number in a queue behind faffing around getting the modem to work; folding clothes and, more importantly, finding my dressing gown; doing battle with Maurice in the kitchen; getting home late from work to spend evenings sorting through boxes, piles of paper and bags of guff; and trying not to tear open all the boxes that have been in storage for three years and just play with my stuff and read all my books.
But life is slowly returning to normal, or at least vaguely settled, and hopefully soon so will my brain.