Sven's life in Oz

That’s me!  Officially without a fixed abode, a means of income, or a mode of transport.  My entire life is boxed up and ready to fly.  I will spare you the usual last day of work stories: the gifts, the drinks, the speeches (or signages in this case) and simply say that it was a most peculiar and enjoyable day.  It still hasn’t sunk in that I’m not going back tomorrow but I’m sure when I wake up at 10am in my parents’ house, shortly after I remember that it’s not 1997 and I’m not 17, it will dawn on me that I truly have stopped work.  At the moment I’m still in “have I left it all in good order/should I sort that out/will they survive without me” mode but I am assured that will pass, and even if they don’t there’s nothing I can do about it now: I’m officially an ex-employee.

Moving out of the flat was a Krypton Factor experience.  For weeks we’ve been moving stuff out to our parents’ houses and still, come the day, there was a tonne of crap to shift.  Where does it all come from?  You know me: I’ll chuck something out as soon as look at it but it still took twelve hours to load up and transport everything.  Clearly the downsizing strategy wasn’t as successful as I had believed.  Thankfully the morning was crisp and clear, and after an hour, so was my head: the morning after my leaving party could have been considerably worse.  I bit my tongue and tried not to jinx it but fate was in no mood for playing by the rules; in the afternoon it hammered it down, and it just kept coming.  Unloading a van in driving rain is as much fun as having teeth pulled.  I nabbed the least exposed job and handed stuff out to the production line of family members in wellies and barbour jackets doing the heavy lifting.  In my defence I didn’t have a coat on, but under the circumstances there was very little motivation to change that.

So here I am at James’s parents’, sitting by the woodburner with two little dogs for company, enjoying cake and tea.  Later today we’re going for a roast dinner and then back to my parents’ for more of the same.  The next week will be a mixture of packing, partings and parties.  I have no doubt that next Saturday, when all my friends are in one place and the drinks are flowing I shall be crying my eyes out and wishing I was staying, but for now I’m content to sit back, take it easy and enjoy the last week of parental care-taking.  My favourite night of the year – Guy Fawkes Night – is on Wednesday so a short tale about our bonfire party will break up the monotony of the countdown to Oz; please bear with me.  The new site is almost ready, the time has almost come and all we have to do now is wait.

Nine days to go.