|Quinces just baked|
|Mike and Alex|
It was the week when Pops moved down the road to live with her dad, Nigel. The upstairs verandah studio where she has brewed her talent as a painter and sculptor has been emptied, all evidence of her beautiful occupation obliterated with a fresh coat of household grey.
|Traces of our artist in residence|
|Evidence gone - ready for tenancy|
It was the week when I didn't cook Monday night dinner. Sam booked a table for ten at a noodle house in Chinatown, and no-one went hungry.
It was the week we finally packed our bags and understood that whatever was still left on the shelves, in the cupboards and on the floor after the past month's Great Divestment of personal and household possessions would disappear into storage for the next however many years.
On Tuesday the removalists put our home comforts into boxes and bubblewrap and on Wednesday they took it all away in a couple of trucks.
|Alex dismantles and cleans the espresso machine|
On Wednesday night, having given everything we could to its final cleaning, we closed up the fine old house in which we've lived so fully over the past six years and drove to Chippendale where we are parked until take off.
We're guests of Tony and Gillian who ride 60 km before breakfast and are serious about their wine and the imperative to appreciate it and each other. They seem to understand that we are somewhere in between here and there, and for that we're grateful. No need to shout and holler.
|Tony's wine fridges|
We're just about done, in many ways, but there's still a graduation and the real goodbyes to come, the ones which will tear us up. Then the life we've been hankering after....if we're ever at sea, as Alex used to say all those years ago.