Through things and stuff and nonsense

It has FINALLY stopped raining. It has been raining constantly for two days now – not that long really, but on the other hand, it kind of is. Especially because when I say constant, I mean constant. I mean, how much water can possibly be up there?

I have no idea how I lived in the UK for as long as I did.

The rain was particularly unwelcome in my world, heralding as it did a streak of generally bad things happening. Work was stressful. I had to have a filling replaced. And so on, and so on…on a scale of problems from mediocre to real they were definitely hanging out down the mediocre end, but the grey skies magnified them, and the contrast of last week's beauty made them even uglier.

Auckland (last week, obviously).

Auckland (last week, obviously).

Because last week was a beautiful week, weather-wise and life-wise. My stuff finally arrived from America, four months after I did, and after a weekend of unpacking and tidying and countless loads of laundry*, my space** is feeling more like mine by the day.

Most of my stuff is still elsewhere; either just beginning its world travels to New Zealand, or hanging in New York with H1, because it's not just my stuff, it's ours. I am wildly relieved that what has arrived is here now, and having some art on the wall and a wider range of shoes in the cupboard and a whole heap more books on the shelf is amazing, but it is not the fix-all that I've been hoping for these last few months.

H1 told me that, and I told him he didn't understand because he was still in our beautiful Upper West Side apartment, surrounded by the beautiful stuff we chose and created and were gifted together. He told me that was almost harder, that he expected to see me every time he rounded a corner. I looked around my (at that stage) sterile flat and told him this was harder.

Stuff...

Stuff...

Stuff...

Stuff...

More important stuff.

More important stuff.

He's now in a new apartment and it's still hard; I've now got more familiarity around me and it's still hard. Most of our stuff is on a cargo boat somewhere in the Pacific. He likes his apartment and it feels like him; I like my space and it feels like me, but neither of us can wait until it feels like us again. And for that, quite honestly, the stuff won't make a damned bit of difference.

*Four months in a container does not make for pleasantly fragrant clothes.

**My room, but I'm saying space to try to sound a little more grown up.