What a house is

I don't have a lot of readers out here in Internetland, something I like to periodically mention in passing in the hope that it will cause someone to write an angry letter to the authorities. But sometimes I have a few more readers than I think. And so it was when, on the issue of leaving my home of 16 years, I took the beating heart out of my bleeding chest and put it... here.

This caught the attention of some of you, in a nice way. But it also possibly gave the impression that we are perhaps being ripped from our home by heartless land speculators, or by a tragic fall in fortunes. So I would like to set the record straight, and say that while there is great sadness for me in leaving this house, and while I really don't enjoy the process of doing so (which is like all the crappy things about owning a house having one more hysterical, dramatic shot at us), I go willingly, finding the tally of the home owning burdens starting to outpace its joys.

In The Lord of the Rings there is a long sequence where Frodo knows he has to leave his home, Bag End, and the Shire, to go off on a perilous quest he may never return from. And if I recall correctly, though this is all meant to be a secret, he tips off his friends by wandering around for years muttering things like:

"Will I ever walk past this tree again?"

and

"I may never see this field again alas."

This is so totally me! 

The Black Riders, the Nazgul, are on their way. I have but a little time to get it together and, for all the grief, and practicality, and opera, strike out on an adventure. Which is what this is too. And each day I grow more and more keen to go.

So thank you for your concern.

It's okay. I'm okay.

We don't own places, we just borrow them.