Rebecca and I sat on the front lawn of our home for an hour yesterday evening, waiting for a taxi. “Five more minutes, five more minutes.” It felt like a final – and necessary – irritation before we left Scotland.
After a day spent gutting the house of furniture and sentiment, of selling the beloved car (and leaving it in the car-park of a Wester Hailes housing estate – my inner class-snob wept but it seemed safe enough) we had said goodbye to my parents, the neighbours, and my cat – dead since last October and still making my jaw clench and eyes smart with guilt over my inability to save his life.
It seemed a fitting end, sitting on the grass, watching the neighbours arrive home from school and then work, giving them a bashful wave, as if we were squatters, Gypsies, as if we didn’t still own the house, lounging on the lawn with our six suitcases. And somehow, it wasn’t even raining. Continue reading