For the last couple of months, a dining room table has been squatting over the coffee table in our living room, like one animal threatening another. It’s not in the way exactly, but it’s still a strangely oppressive use of space. Anyway, in a few days it will be gone.
The oldest one is leaving home for the third time – or the fourth, if you count going to university, which I do, because I cried that time, my vision blurring as I tried to punch my registration number into a car park ticket machine.
The other times were less fraught.
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