I am in a hopeless guddle, right now, this minute. There are tables all over the house, each with a function, each laden. I have rolls of fabric, and boxes of boxes, walls hung with hooks hung with useful things. I am outnumbered.
Only five more weeks before we have the space downstairs. I can’t wait, in fact I have been drawing tragic little elevations with captions like “my laundry”, showing a glowing, orderly space with nothing extraneous jammed in there. “Living room” contains only one table, one chair, and the wing chair. No. Thing. Else.