So I'm home. Really and truly home. Months of planning and organising have come together, and I write from my very empty, but very lovely new flat. Looking out over the sea. Through the rain. Of course.
The journey back was long. In so many ways. I fretted a tad throughout the night and was up before the crack of dawn. The few things I had meant to carry with me had become a few more than anticipated. And possibly a few more than necessary. So it took longer to organise myself. But we got there. The drugs were administered to the confused cats. And we were off.
And so the fun began. Monty was indeed calmer than he would normally have been. Thanks to the drugs. Milly, on the other hand, was not. She became almost unrecognisable. Vocal and anxious. Agitated. Almost wild. Attacking the carrier. The blanket inside. My hand. The drugs for her were a huge mistake. Huge. I spent the first 6 hours of the journey to the ferry fretting and worrying. Soothing and coaxing her. She was on my knee, on the seat. Back in the carrier. Out again. She finally decided to get in alongside Monty in his carrier. And calmed down. A little, at least.
The consequence of all this stress? I barely noticed the journey. Barely reflected on the destination. The departure. The move. I was more concerned with being a bad (cat) mother. A cruel human being. Abusing the animals in my care. I felt bad. To say the very least.
Only arriving at the flat and watching my cats eat and snuggle and settle did I even vaguely relax. They won't be fully right until the furniture arrives, methinks. Still, in the meantime, there are huge windows. Plenty to see. And the seagulls are particularly entertaining.
I am now losing myself in paperwork, trying to establish my presence. I figure life will be improved over the next 10 days when telephone lines, broadband and various insurances kick in. Although I wake up every day now looking at the sea. Does life really get any better than that?
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