Moving day approaches and we have run out of boxes. I called the trusty mover to suggest that maybe he should bring a LOT of boxes tomorrow and he said he has 8 ready for us. 8. I pointed out that it would be neigh impossible to pack up any home into 8 boxes and with a great sigh he asked how many we might need. 20 I said. Bring 20 to be on the safe side. Unhappily he agreed to try and make 20 appear out of thin air, rueing the day he ever agreed to take on this job.
Handsome Husband thinks it is hilarious that upon seeing supermarket boxes I had the gall to ask if maybe he had any of those lovely wardrobe boxes to carry clothes. You know, the ones with an inbuilt bar to slip hangers onto. I live in hope, always in hope.
We did a run over to the house with our car, the happy Beauty, filled to the brim. Tragically I broke a mirror as we were unloading.
I am worried about 7 years bad luck. Not sure I could take 7 years of bad luck in Uganda. Maybe in Montreal, London or Trinidad, but not in Uganda.
When we came home ready to pack clothes and shoes into a suitcase the shoebox was already deep into the darkness of a power cut. So I have selected to drink wine instead.
Tomorrow new house.