The Downsizer Diaries Part 1

Moving on, moving out, moving stories

I’ve been a bit quiet on here lately…But only because there has been so much going on IRL (In Real Life). The chief of which has been the publication of my memoir Perfect Bound (Mudlark, £20) which details the long-term - and unexpected - effects of grief and PTSD. Spoiler alert - the more you appear to be handling it all brilliantly, the less well you might be coping.

At the same time, and with the impeccable timing for which I am renowned (!), I also sold my house. This is the home I created from the ground up with my ex, which we fought over in the courts and to which, having won, I retreated to lick my wounds and ride out Covid. Apparently, a house move ranks on the stress scale alongside bereavement and divorce. I am not sure where that statistic comes from but having experienced all three, I can only concur. And here’s another stat from unknown source: if you don’t downsize by age 72, then you never will. I am a few years off that watershed but it makes perfect sense to me. The reasons for my move are exemplary. I want to be near my daughter, Hope; my adored (and adorable) granddaughter Cora and my horse Pablo - plus I can work anywhere these days. The years when I was tethered not only to commuting but, more importantly, to a fast cab ride home from the office when one of my children needed me (as turned out to be brutally necessary when my beloved daughter Ellie contracted blood cancer) are over. I am as free as a bird; I can be based anywhere. Somehow, at this stage in my life, I have become a digital nomad.

But, oh, it hurts. It’s hard and in ways I never imagined. For a start - and this is the most minor of complaints - it took me nine days to be reconnected to the internet. The last time I moved house, a mere seven years ago when I moved back to the Canal House, a bit over a week without broadband would have been nothing. Now it means dropping off the edge of the known Universe. I have seen no TV; heard no radio; been unable to access my bank account; communicate with utilities companies or even send emails due to the lack of 5G (or even 4G) in the charming village to which I have moved. I have not been able to have my nightly call with Hope nor my twice-weekly cocktail hour with my 90-year-old mother. I conducted my weekly call with my therapist sitting in the car park of a supermarket. I was probably the last person in known world to learn that Donald Trump is President-Elect of the US.

And that’s before we get to all the unpacking - physical and metaphysical. Oh Lord! Come with me as I journey through the metaphor that is moving/downsizing. It has a lot to say to those of us who know what it is to have loved and lost. Which really is all of us. The point is we are all in this together

With love

Lindsay x