I know, I know, it has definitely been a while since I managed to post, well, anything, but hopefully, dear reader (wait, do I really think that somebody other than me might read this nonsense?), you’ll forgive me when I tell you why.

Having picked up a second, much worse, bout of covid when out donating blood in December(no good deed…), I started January sleeping up to eighteen hours per day, and mostly just about existing, which was not ideal, given the rapidly approaching January 31st, when my flat sale would complete, and I had to be packed and out.

I might, if you’re really unlucky, recount the story of mid-January to early-February here someday, but in the meantime, for the sake of my mental health, I’m restricting the finer details to only telling when I’m in possession of a very strong drink. Needless to say, the English housing market and property sale and purchasing process is bloody awful, needs a massive overhaul, and I’ve remembered why I hadn’t moved home for almost sixteen years.

Now, however, I’m typing this up as a non-Londoner, out in a small village (two pubs, a village shop/post office, a mechanic, and a hairdresser place). Almost three times the floor space of my flat in Bethnal Green, I am not sorry to see the back of the building site right outside my doors, nor the kids in other flats running around at all sorts of hours of the day. It’s definitely a wrench to move so far out of town, but I’m less than an hour by train along a main line, easy access to a major trunk road, and have a large drive for visitors with cars, as well as fresh air, a couple of spare bedrooms, a garden, and most importantly, as I approach 43, a shed. Technically two sheds, but I have converted one of them to my work from home office, so I’m going with one shed, officially.