Small doors

I don’t like 16th century houses with short doors. I raced up the stairs this evening to answer the phone in one of the upstairs rooms, lowered my head to get through the doorway and still managed to nearly knock myself out on the lintel. Forgot about the phone and struggled to retain my wits as I lay on the floor gasping with the pain. I can’t believe that people in the 16th century were ever this small. To get through two of the doors upstairs you have to perform the kind of manoeuvre you’d use in one of those dances where people form an arch and you go under it. Most people look as though they’re never going to make it through one of those, so imagine how they’d get on here.

Counting Down

This weekend is our last in the house for six months. It's a bit scary, knowing that we're going to do the final lot of sorting out of the place out in preparation for other people to live here. This weekend will be a time for clothes-packing and clothes-putting-away; for making final decisions on what we take in that line and what we don't – and how much of my suitcase can be taken over by my wife. And then there's all the bits and pieces: medicines (of which we seem to have an abundance - because of our age); umpteen cords to charge up cellphones, the laptop, the MP3 player and so on; papers we need to take; bags for bits and pieces that we'll carry on the plane. It's all a bit mind-boggling. Normally, when you're only going away for a week or so you can just get on and assume you'll manage with what you've got; six months is a bit different.

The thought of sleeping in other people's beds for six months is a bit weird, too, and never having places to put things where they'll have any sense of permanence. The thought of not being 'home' for six months is strange. I've obviously become so settled that the idea of such a big change is almost too much for me!

And then there are things like needing to get up in the night to go to the loo. One of the women who used to volunteer in the shop was away from home once (when she was only about 75) and got up in the middle of the night – and walked into the edge of a door. She had a mark right down her face and chest, and wasn't well for months afterwards. I don't usually walk into things in the night (because I know where everything is) but in other people's homes it's a different story. And you don't want to wake anyone! As I say, I'm normally familiar with my own home, but one night I woke up, didn't quite bring my brain with me, and scrabbled against a wall trying to figure out where the door had gone – and it wasn't even the wall that the door was in. Fortunately such times are rare.

The nifty bedfellow comes from a StumbleUpon page.