Like a wet rag

Don't mistake me. My wife and I are moving to the Cote d'Azur, the famous Riviera of the South of France, the haunt of Russian aristocrats, English gentry and the fabled artists and writers of the Jazz Age. I shall be living in a town which has welcomed Robert Louis Stevenston, Katherine Mansfield, Maupassant, Jean Cocteau and, I'm certain, numerous other writers and poets. I am over the moon at the thought of it. And we are flying out in just over a week.

However, I am absolutely shattered. The amount of work and emotional impact of making such a move is draining. There is the sheer amount of clearing out and getting rid of years of possessions. We must have got rid of over six hundred books, many of them long treasured. They've all gone to good homes, principally because of the charitable work of Toni at the Wellington Bookshop.

Then there is the bitter-sweet experience of saying farewell to so many friends and discovering just how much we like them and they like us.

I feel like I have gone twenty rounds with Yogi Bear. Bruised and cuddled in equal measure.
But in a week we will be ensconced in a hotel and in a week and a day flying like the birds south for the winter. It will be the best of bon voyages. In the meanwhile, however, I am like a wet rag.