What we should have been doing, just a week after moving house:
We should have been working hard to heave our possessions out of boxes and shove them into cupboards.
We should have been rearranging the bookshelves and kitchen cupboards so that the stuff we need is at the front. (Question to self: if there is stuff we don’t need, why have we still got it?)
We should have been going out and getting one of those wire caddy things to hold your shampoo in the shower.
What we wanted to do:
Flickering in front of our eyes for some months, there had been emails whispering about a camping trip with people who have been our friends for thirty or more years, since university.
The more it seemed that our house-move would make it impossible, the more I wanted to go. And actually, after the traumas of moving house, and struggling through the last few days at school, the prospect of a little too much red wine in front of a camp fire, surrounded by tolerant friends became irresistible.
What we actually did:
We acknowledged that even if we worked non-stop all weekend, our house would still not be straight.
Once we had admitted that, it was easy to decide to go.
And funnily enough, in spite of all the turmoil of moving house, the camping things were easily to hand.
Almost as if I had long-ago decided we would go.