Seeing as I'm awake anyway...

The End Of The World was quickly identified as the shampoo falling over in the shower, but at 3:30am the startled brain makes mistakes.  The adrenaline rush seems to have put paid to my night's sleep, so here I am instead trying to sum up five weeks in the new house, hereafter referred to simply as 'the house'. 
We have done either very little or a great deal, depending on who you ask. The walls and carpets remain dated, but new shelves are up, and pictures hung.  We are insinuating our presence rather than attempting a 'makeover'.  Heaven forbid.
The garden is receiving by far the most attention.  We have taken out huge quantities of brambles, and pruned bushes to discover lost paths and sunlight.  Pots filled with only soil and snails have been emptied, cleaned, stacked and in some cases already re-used.  The greenhouse has been swept and tidied, ready to accept the tomatoes, aubergines and peppers currently decorating several windowsills, and potatoes have been buried with great ceremony.  Small white labels are currently the only clues to the locations of potential carrots, peas and radishes.  A frankly ridiculous number of lamb's lettuce seeds have already germinated.  That's not all, but you begin to get the picture.
Ten years with only a shared asphalt yard and the ruins of an outside loo fostered more horticultural frustration than we realised, and of course there's now plenty of room for the kids to play.  We have so many plans for the garden I'm sure it will be impossible to do half of them, but we'll enjoy ourselves anyway, and I'll even attempt to blog about the bits I deem interesting.
I can hear rain.  In a couple of hours I'm going to have to go out in that and plant more potatoes.  And that's ok with me.

The move.

It went well, all things considered.  It came down to the wire with our mortgage offer ten days from expiry, and there were several times when we just knew it was going to fall through, we had to drop the price to keep things moving, and we really felt as though we were putting ourselves through too much to cope.  I had intended to write about the process here just to share the misery, but as the weeks dragged into months I just couldn't raise the enthusiasm.  And it's really no different from most people's experience, I expect, of moving house, albeit perhaps a little more drawn out than was really necessary.

But ultimately everything slid into place a little under a week ago, and after a truly forgettable few days of panic, I am lying on the sofa watching the snow melt and listening to the birds sing and the infant snore.  No traffic noise. No drunken midnight shouting.  No neighbour tuning engines at all hours.

Our lives can now carry on, only New & Improved, and we are already smiling more, and at each other.  Our eldest danced around her new room singing about how happy she was,  so it was all worth it.

And I have a shed.

A quick one while I'm away.

I have spent the last three days questioning my own intelligence.  I have been in Leeds attending an IT course which was notable for including almost nothing of interest while being supremely useful.
If you ever attend an ITIL v3 foundation course,  be prepared to feel mentally beaten, and then realise that somehow, despite the course being delivered in elvish so far as you can tell, you seem to understand the whole subject.
The exam results may shatter this illusion, but I think it went ok.

Vaclav Havel

I've never been hugely political.  I don't mean I ignore politics or have no interest, but I settle for knowing what I think, and making sure that the person I vote for has the decency to at least pretend to speak for me.
But that's a position I can afford to adopt living in the UK.  I was fairly well aware, in my formative years, that a large chunk of nearby Europe didn't have the freedoms we did.  I feel lucky to be old enough to remember how big a deal it was when the Soviet hold over eastern Europe crumbled, with one country after another reclaiming their identity.
The one that really caught my imagination was Czechoslovakia. The idea that a playwright could take over where cold grey communism left off was inspiring and gave a real romantic edge to the change.
I've been to the Czech Republic a fair few times in the last ten years, and have only furthered my appreciation for what Vaclav Havel achieved in his second career.  If you've time to spare, I urge you to read this obituary from the Guardian.  He was an extraordinary man, and politics the world over needs more people like him.

Ultraviolet Lite

It hasn't been the easiest week.  We've been waiting for the final bits of the house move to come together, I'm waiting to find out if I have got onto the teaching course, and the girls have been taking it in turns to be violently ill.   I've not had enough sleep and therefore fully expect to be joining them soon.

So it's a good job I'm easily distracted.
I recently acquired one of those UV lights shops use to check for funny money, and spent a diverting half-hour passing everything I could think of which might be security-marked under it.  The security marks on money were no surprise, but our chequebooks were worth a look.  Three iterations of UK passport yielded differing results, with the most recent being a real visual feast.  I had no idea that credit cards had a fluorescent feature, or postage stamps, for that matter.

At the risk of sounding slightly unhinged, I'd recommend everyone spend some time with one of these lights and all their important documents.  It's fascinating.  And when you've got used to the Stabilo highlighter colours springing off the pages of your passport, try your (UK) driving licence.  It's a treat.

Anyway, now I have to go and stress about a house move, and get mentally ready for all the vomiting.

Some things never change.

There are two conductors on the tram.  Saturday in Sheffield is busier than I expect until I remember it is the run up to Christmas.  I disembark by the Occupy camp that used to be the cathedral and pause to get my bearings; I don't come into town often and the crowds are both exciting and offputting.  I meet Ben on Fargate, noting that we have both opted to wear the accepted father-of-two uniform of blue jeans and a brown jacket, although thankfully not to the extent that Dan and I once managed.  Laughter still echoes in the Welsh Valleys.
We walk.  Ben comments on how lucky I am to live in Sheffield.  I have to agree, but all I can think is "this didn't use to be here".  My Sheffield is the pre-university Sheffield of the early nineties:Rock Night at the Roxy, The Drop at the city hall ballroom, various pubs now gone or changed in all but location.  And there are now flats everywhere.  People have always lived in the city centre, but now they do so visibly. In times past you could believe that after closing time the city was empty.
Coffee and a sarnie- sorry: Latte and a Panini in the winter gardens.  A chat.  I can't remember the last time Ben and I just sat and chatted.  Properly putting the world to rights.
A stroll around the bookshops (neither of us buy as many as we would like to) is followed by a longer-than-intended stop at that rare creature: a proper pub.  The Red Deer deserves a mention here as it was just as I remembered from years ago, and there aren't too many things in Sheffield I can say that about any more. The beer and the words flow easily, and we agree that no, this doesn't happen often enough.  We know we get on well but it is nice to get the chance to prove it.
Hours later than planned (we really did just meet up for a coffee), and a good deal merrier, we emerge into the darkness and head back to the cathedral, making plans to do this again as soon as possible. 
I leave Ben to chat to the Occupy campers and jump on a homeward-bound tram, a happier man than the one that left the house in the morning.
Good friendships need days like this.

Cardigan

It was Peter O'Toole that did it.  He was in a film called High Spirits.  I only remember two important things about the film.  Firstly that it was crap, and secondly that Peter O'Toole wore a great cardigan.  I wanted a cardigan like that.  For years.  Eventually I got one.  Not the same, but close enough: long-ish, woolly, and with pockets big enough for the pipe I don't smoke.  I got it for my birthday some years ago, and there was a horrified look on the face of my sister's boyfriend when I unwrapped it. He assumed this was a classic piece of unsolicited knitwear from an aunt, and the look of horror intensified when I assured him I'd specifically requested it. 
I still have it, but either it's stretched a bit or I've shrunk.  Before this calamity I experimented with wearing it in the office, but they weren't ready for it and asked me to stop.
Now I just wear it at home, which it might be argued is just as it should be.  But it is still increasing in size and I think it might be time to go and get a new one before I trip over and fall into one of the pockets.  So this time I will find the closest match I can to the one in the film, or rather the one in the film in my head, because I can't ever watch it again for fear of spoiling the cardigan.