I’m quietly amazed by how fast the laundry is drying at the new place, and also at how fresh and sweet it smells. I use Ecover, which has no preservatives in it, so if clothes hang about damp for any length of time they go fusty. Not so at Number 11.
The longer I’m in the house of breezes, the less I want to set foot again in the miasma mansion. The workmen have started, but D, who has been back into the house to pick up the mail, says it’s like a hundred cats have staged a diarrhoea party in every room. There’s mould. And the snails are coming inside to get damp.
I have to go back this weekend to get bedlinens, books, some utensils and a reading lamp, but I don’t want to. I love my house, she’s wonderful, but she’s ill, through no fault of her own; and I shall leave her alone to get better.
