Well. It’s gone. All our stuff. Off to the Outpost in a 40ft container. We’re camping now, with barest minimum in a house that echoes forlornly. Living on the farm becomes more difficult by the day: the power cuts, the – understandably – unhappy labour force, the untidily unkempt appearance of the place exacerbated by looting (thieves are not concerned with how neatly they disconnect irrigation pipes) and – this morning – the evil sound of a chainsaw as it cuts down another beautiful tree. Once leaving this lovely place would have filled me with regret, but now I only anticipate relief.
The dogs will not leave my side. They sit on my feet when I sit at my makeshift desk. And they follow me everywhere, even – if I’d let them – into the loo. The cats, normally so haughty and disinterested in where any of us mere mortals are, have taken to sleeping on beds, reassuring themselves that we’re still here even if none of our stuff is. Only the geese remain unperturbed. Though they were indignant to be locked up yesterday, out of harm’s – and a heavy truck’s – way. One of the younger trees in the garden wasn’t so lucky; it got run over as the driver tried to maneuver his vehicle into a position to load it.
I have exactly three weeks left in this house. It can’t go fast enough. I’m going to make a Sally Worm, like we did at boarding school, and tear off each day, represented by a segment, longing for the last of it.
It’s been a battle, these recent weeks, but at last, at last, the end’s in sight.