Well, it's all over. Here we are. In Grove, a suburb (what's the equivalent for a market town?) of Wantage - birthplace, I think of King Alfred. We've moved, and I'm officially retired. Or tired, more like. Actually both Jane and I are exhausted, which isn't surprising since moving is near the top of the stressful experiences of life. Although, obviously, I've done nothing to help, just sat around suggesting where things might go in the new house.
It's been quite frustrating, as this has been the first move we've had since I've been ill. Previously I've been able to shift furniture, empty boxes, hang pictures etc. This time I've had to fight the temptation to feel guilty or sorry for myself. However, as readers will have gathered, I have a nice family who worked their socks off, and achieved more than the two of us would have on our own. And our movers, Smarts of Highworth, were the best of the six we've used over our married life. Couldn't have been more accommodating and efficient.
Obviously there's quite a bit to do yet, before everything has its place. But here we are. This, not The Vicarage, is our home - for which in this cold spell we are grateful, since the Vicarage was quite a big house and single-glazed and this is double-glazed and not so big. And I am no longer a vicar. I'm an ex-vicar. So I'll have to change my profile.
Oh, and I nearly forgot. On Friday, the day we moved in, the lift got up to its old tricks again and took to leaving me hanging in mid-air on the descent. I comforted myself with the fact, according to the Editor of IAOR'S blog (who has commented here a couple of times), that lifts are statistically the safest mode of transport. However Pete the engineer from Bristol came out today through the blizzard, and tracked down the cause of the problem - a protruding screw which triggered the safety mechanism whenever it reached the bedroom floor. Since then it's worked fine. Bristol's a fine city.