ventually the Xanax kicks in and that I come to terms with that my personal apartment is no longer my own, but ours. I accept that not absolutely all the photos in the shops are people I know, that not all the meals from inside the cupboards is actually things I like to consume, and that Jack Russell terriers frequently lose plenty of white hair – white hair definitely revealed off to great impact by my tobacco-brown felt Ligne Roset sofas. I actually do, after just a bit of a barney, find a way to remove the novelty pay phone in to the cupboard beneath the steps; regrettably the little lacquered Chinese table I’d in addition put there’s eventually back to the extra area in which Simon had at first put it.

At the time of midnight the final of cardboard boxes has been chucked outside the house, nearly all of Simon’s possessions are finding property (he appears to have even more clothing than i actually do), and my ex-wife sweetly drops down a container of champagne. The children are nowhere to be seen: they’ll hold their range until they are sure there are not any jobs they could get roped into assisting on with.

Fundamentally, we rise into bed. Simon, knackered from the day’s exertions, falls asleep virtually straight away; meanwhile we peer about at nighttime at my previous empire as I hear small paws pottering around noisily from the solid wood floors. I’m hoping he’s not likely to do that forever.

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