Happier with a hammer than talking about cushions

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Well, the big move is over. My mum is settling into her new home and the we have the house to ourselves again.

With the furniture and boxes that packed the spare room gone, chez Hume seems strangely empty (or as much as it can be when you have a three-year-old).

The weeks have gone surprisingly quickly, with no major rows – in fact mother and daughter-in-law have been belying accepted tradition and getting on a bit too well.

On several occasions I have ended up isolated as the subject matter has moved from manly pursuits such as building flat pack furniture and plumbing in washing machines to such trifling details as soft furnishings and carpets.

My input has been restricted to fleeting interjections on the oft-debated subject of a new sofa, which I firmly believe SHOULD dominate a room and CAN’T be too big

Acually that looks like one battle I may just win but it pales into insignificance when compared with the dismal trail of defeats.

Ah well, it’s back to my own house, armed with a hammer and looking for a wall to demolish.

P.S. For those of you asking, my Italian relatives did their John O’Groat’s picture.

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