Well, tomorrow I leave this lovely house and all the good people. I went for a last swim in the College pool this morning, cycling along Kingsgate Street as I have done for the last fifty five years. I reckon I might have swum to America and back in all those lengths (well France anyway)  I have been hugged and kissed by the most unlikely people, who have all assured me that will very soon turn up in Ditchling. That will be nice as long as they don`t all come at once.  The leaving parties were embarrassingly well attended in spite of my fears, and the sun shone on a garden filled with tulips and bluebells.
The car is filled to the gunnells with objects gathered up  around the house: wellingon boots, music I will never play, Quaker marmalade, ancient rusty baking tins, and also a large acer tree given as a present which will tickle the back of my neck all the way to Ditchling. I must not forget to pack Daphne the cat who is wandering around the house well aware that Somehing Is Up.  The bike and cello have been farmed out for others to take.  I will change the name of this blog when I get there as alas I have no Aga, it should come up as Ditchling Daze but I am not sure where.  Dear J tried to organise it for me. I may have to get the grand daughters on to it in Brighton.
I wonder how I will feel when I set off early tomorrow?

From the 1st May I can be found at Ditchling Daze.

the last ditch before Ditchling

Life is busy. If in doubt, throw it out is my motto. I did a car boot with J on Sunday and objects from my childhood home in Palmers Green were cheerfully sold for fifty pence. Last week I moved my possessions to the teeny tiny cottage. it was chaotic but with the help of grand daughters G and M we unpacked all the boxes and made up the beds which looked bouncy and inviting. A kind bloke came and assembled the Ikea flatpacks so there were bookshelves to stow away all the hundreds of books that I could not bear to give to Oxfam, yet. I cooked my first big saucepan of soup for my kind family who came to do the broadband, tune in the telly and arrange the books in alphabetical order would you believe.
I am now back in the Meeting House for my last two weeks until I finally move on May 1st with my cat, my bike and my cello. Everyone is being nice to me and it makes me feel tearful. I tried out my farewell speech on M last night and got a lump in my throat. I am still worried that no one will turn up at my leaving party.

too much stuff

Everyone who comes to the house is ordered to take something, anything away, coal scuttles, my mother`s dinner plates, brass candlesticks, teapots,woolly hats,maps of the Lake District, fish knives and forks, but even so the number of filled boxes piling up in the garage, on the landings and in my flat seems enormous when I consider my tiny living space in Ditchling.
Tomorrow, J, an ex resident whose dad lives up North is taking some superfluous furniture to grand daughter F for me , so I thought I would buy an outfit for great grandson little Arthur, to go with it. What a shock to see what baby boys of four months old are supposed to wear: combat trousers in thick denim, orange striped rugby shirts. It all looked rough and tickly.
Normal life is in suspension at present, and I have not celebrated Easter properly at all. This time last year I was up in Northumberland cycling round Cragside on a family holiday in spring sunshine, but here I am ,up and down the stairs with bags of coat hangers and bubble wrap feeling anxious about the imminent moving day.

more last things

Today some of the morning swimmers took me out for a farewell coffee at the cathedral refectory. Of course it was not my last swim, but several of the others were off for the Easter Hols. It was nice to meet with all our clothes on for a change.
I did gardening with K later, in a bitterly cold wind. Everything is very late, and lots of loved plants died in the winter snows. Odd to think I will not be here to see the dahlias that K planted.
Some of the Alcoholics Anonymouses are very kindly carrying some furniture downstairs as I write this with much groaning on the bends in the stairs and landings. Another friend is driving these things up to Newcastle to granddaughter F. What a pallaver it all is.
Next Wednesday is the Moving Day though I will not leave my job here till May 1st, but my flat must be painted for the new incumbent. I spend many waking hours in the middle of the night, thinking `if I put that bookcase there and that table there, where will I fit in the sofa?` and so it goes on.