Up until about a week ago I believed I was going to live in this house until I died.
A good enough reason for getting out, really.
But still;- we're cosy and comfy in Oldham and we know our way around and here we are setting our sights on moving to a part of the world we favour because the sea is splashing about somewhere in the vicinity and the horizons are so low.
And the skies are so big.
What is this thing I've got- it almost amounts to a passion- about going to live in a marsh?
I love Great Expectations- but do I really love it this much?
And if my ancestors were marsh men and marsh women (as I like to fantasize) didn't they get the hell out of there as soon as they could?
But I'm working through the fear. I know (know?- am I really that sure?) that this is THE RIGHT THING TO DO.