Bugging Out

Pink please

We spent time Friday undoing the bit of order we'd achieved at home - dumping closets out, throwing clothes out of the dressers, emptying drawers so that the nice people at RAF Alconbury could reclaim our hideously ugly loaner furniture (I can only describe the aesthetic as "early American cruise ship"). All of this is in preparation for the GLORIOUS arrival of our shipment from America, which comes to us tomorrow. Words can not describe the collective excitement to be reunited with comfortable sofas and rugs to dampen the echo-chamber that is our dwelling. Of course we have entirely too much stuff, much, much too much stuff. I think Monday's exercise will be much like stuffing rosy-cheeked performers into a clown car. But that, my friends, is what storage is for.

So, rather than sleep on hardwood floors, we have decamped to Marlow and the home of The Bean, who has done nothing but endeavor to make us fat and happy: a Cinderella DVD for our little princess and a mani,  a massive pub lunch for Paul at the Royal Standard England, a pedicure and a late-night stitch and bitch session for the girls (just like old times back in 1997 when we used to drink gobs of wine and noodle over patterns - wild girls, we were). We remain ever grateful, plotting to return the favor one day.

We leave here tomorrow at 5 a.m. to beat the movers back to Cambridge. Consulting bookies in Vegas to establish the over-under on breakage.