Sunday, 23 August 2015


I've typed and deleted sentences over again, had cups of tea, played with the Chihuahuas, listened to awful (brilliant) music, and still I'm at a complete loss.  The perfectionist in me wants to write something immaculate but the realist in me wants to type with no plans or structure.  The realist wins this time.

This past week has been exhausting; Mr Lonsdale and I have driven over 800 miles, carried heavy boxes up and down stairs, in and out of vans, eaten what could only be described as "sporadically", and spent more hours on the motorway than we have sleeping.  However it has been one of the best weeks of my life.

The past 7 days have marked the end of distance, the end of missing someone until it aches, the end of constant travelling and late nights just to make things work.  I cannot describe the feeling of knowing that, apart from the odd few work trips, we never have to be apart again.

For the first time it feels like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

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