Exits, Carrying Mop and Bucket

The eve of departure and how am I spending it? Cleaning my flat. For some reason I’ve never worked out, I feel I must leave the place in sparkling good order. Is it a vestige of the old days when getting on a plane seemed momentous and risky? The subtext being, I might not make it back and I don’t want people at my funeral saying, “you should have seen the state of her tea towels.”

My youngest daughter, whose tea towels always look immaculate, pointed out that at the end of a trip it’s nice to come home to a clean and tidy house. So there’s that.

I think there maybe something deeper at work and no doubt someone has written a PhD thesis on it, but anyway, my flat is spruced, my bag is packed and I’m making a run for it before Boris locks the gates. Apparently I’m not required to quarantine myself when I get to London because I’ll be arriving from Ireland. To which I can only say, ‘hunh?’

But I will isolate for a week or two. It seems only polite. And it’ll be a good opportunity to commune with Dr Dan and see how he feels about a Book 4.

 

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