London calling - On holiday
part 3
Athree-week holiday is rapidly coming to an end. By the time you will be reading this on Saturday, I shall be back in the city, probably having an unpacking crisis. The last couple of days have been complete chaos thanks to the packing part of the Significant Other's move - trying to cram in all the things that should have been done weeks ago into a stupid amount of time. I'm expecting the same amount of time at the other end to try and put what has been packed back into some form of organisation. It could be that I'm being a bit optimistic here.
One would have thought that after so many years - and so many moves - I would have learnt not to procrastinate - and yet I continue to leave everything until the last second. I'm discovering that SO tends to be a bit like that too. Which is why, in between paragraphs here in a semi-empty room, I'm filling bags with pots and pans and making calls to friends to pick up stuff that we've only just discovered cannot be left in the flat. The lady from the agency - who I've been told is not the nicest of characters - is coming at 7 p.m. to have a final inspection. I've just worked out that the word vacio means empty because I've heard her screaming it down the phone to SO, so many times.
The end of a holiday always comes tinged with a little bit of sadness: The last hours spent on the beach, knowing that soon, there'll be no beach to go to; a final dinner in a favourite restaurant made even better by the fact that I won't be able to have it for another few months - and now that SO is going to be living in London, trips to Barcelona will be less frequent, although we'll be popping down every now and again I'm sure.
And of course, the goodbyes, which I've never been a good one for. While the last couple of days have been spent trying to edit down SO's possessions to the basics, there's been farewell dinners with SO's friends and family. The more time I spend in Spain, the more I realise how similar the Spanish are to us Maltese. Just like us, boy do they like to make a big fuss over everything! As a result, every farewell meal so far has ended with a packet of Kleenex. Even at this age, I hate saying goodbye, and always get really upset when I have to do it. The fact that these goodbyes are not really for me - and that I'm not the one leaving behind people who I've known since childhood - is irrelevant.
Tonight - if we ever make it - is going to be the last of those nights. There's a dinner taking place for about 20 people - although we are still not sure of the venue. And I've just been told that the washing machine has also got to go, and we've got something like five hours to find a home for it. So excuse me if I sign off at this point, it's crisis solving time!
One would have thought that after so many years - and so many moves - I would have learnt not to procrastinate - and yet I continue to leave everything until the last second. I'm discovering that SO tends to be a bit like that too. Which is why, in between paragraphs here in a semi-empty room, I'm filling bags with pots and pans and making calls to friends to pick up stuff that we've only just discovered cannot be left in the flat. The lady from the agency - who I've been told is not the nicest of characters - is coming at 7 p.m. to have a final inspection. I've just worked out that the word vacio means empty because I've heard her screaming it down the phone to SO, so many times.
The end of a holiday always comes tinged with a little bit of sadness: The last hours spent on the beach, knowing that soon, there'll be no beach to go to; a final dinner in a favourite restaurant made even better by the fact that I won't be able to have it for another few months - and now that SO is going to be living in London, trips to Barcelona will be less frequent, although we'll be popping down every now and again I'm sure.
And of course, the goodbyes, which I've never been a good one for. While the last couple of days have been spent trying to edit down SO's possessions to the basics, there's been farewell dinners with SO's friends and family. The more time I spend in Spain, the more I realise how similar the Spanish are to us Maltese. Just like us, boy do they like to make a big fuss over everything! As a result, every farewell meal so far has ended with a packet of Kleenex. Even at this age, I hate saying goodbye, and always get really upset when I have to do it. The fact that these goodbyes are not really for me - and that I'm not the one leaving behind people who I've known since childhood - is irrelevant.
Tonight - if we ever make it - is going to be the last of those nights. There's a dinner taking place for about 20 people - although we are still not sure of the venue. And I've just been told that the washing machine has also got to go, and we've got something like five hours to find a home for it. So excuse me if I sign off at this point, it's crisis solving time!