Over the last few days it has become a symbol of my guilt.
A tamarisk. Its fronds change through green, pink, mauve and deep red before finally seeding as a cotton wool fluff that gets everywhere and makes me sneeze for an entire month.
I had been battling with it for a few years and finally made the decision to chop it down last year.
We all loved this beautiful tree and no-one wanted it destroyed, but it had come to the point where my life was a misery for the whole of June. I remember at the time that I wondered if it was an incredibly selfish action on my part since I might not be living in the house in five years time.
And, of course, so it has proved.
There are so many instances like this. As I walk around the house and touch all the old, familiar things, clean rooms and furniture that have received the same treatment each week for the last two decades, I hear my inner voice. It reminds me that, in a month’s time, this will no longer be my home.
That’s when I get the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I have paid the deposit and the flat will be my rented property for six months from the end of July.
If there is any sage advice that bitter experience compels you to impart to this virgin lessee in the weeks leading up to taking possession, I would be very grateful.
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