So apparently we are moving house on Monday.
And meanwhile I seem to be making jar after jar of apple sauce (home-reared pork on the way, you know), and bottling twenty kilograms of tomatoes. No, I don't know either. It's some kind of dreadful procrastination. Another loaf of bread in the oven. Even Adam, the most amazing and patient man ever who understands my brain processes raised his eyebrows when it appeared I was knuckling down to start on many litres of chicken stock.
Chickens in freezer, just one in the pot. Deep breath. Pack another box.
Hose off the children who appear to have turned completely feral.
Pack another box.
Try to decide which kitchen items I'm prepared to lose sight of for at least twelve months stored in the shipping container, pack a box of those items which must stay with me. And another one.
Pull Ivy off the top of the stack of boxes by the front door. Her single minded dedication to danger increases daily.
All encouraging words gratefully received. Feeling just a tad panicky, bubbling pot of chicken stock notwithstanding.
Hope your week is calm.
(Maybe I could borrow some of it?)