“When I was a kid my parents moved a lot, but I always found them.”
― Rodney Dangerfield

The flat is all but empty, all we really lave left is some fragile things that we didn’t want to transport in a tightly packed car where they would be jostled to pieces.

All our furniture sold (some of it at the 11th hour!).

We still have to clean. The thought fills me with dread.

I’ve been bouncing back and forth between packing and working for some freelance clients and the vocabulary is starting to blur (“I have to send off more sofas for this assignment. I mean edits. Damn it! I mean emails!”).

I am bloody tired.

Discovered: we don’t have as much stuff as we thought we did, just mostly pesky little things. Another great purge is in order!

Typing this from a hard floor without furniture to sit on is not my favorite.

My in-laws are unbelievably great people – every last one of them.

Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’ song “Thrift Shop” (language warning, just in case) has been our theme song for the entirety of this enterprise (particularly as we donated acres of stuff to the local one). And I literally just found $20 in my pocket. Universe for the win.