The old house and the new

We moved in October, on a day when the forecast changed its mind every hour. The first boxes went into the van dry. The last came out under a tarpaulin. By evening there was a trail of damp cardboard through the new hall and nowhere obvious to put the kettle.

The new house is smaller. Before the move, this sounded like a useful fact: fewer rooms to clean, less space to fill. On the day itself it meant that the bookcase would not fit where I had drawn it on the plan. I had measured the wall but forgotten the door needed to open.

For the first week, books occupied most of the sitting-room floor. I chose the ones to keep in reach, put some upstairs and gave a box to a friend who runs a small lending shelf. Then I bought two short shelves instead of trying to persuade the old bookcase into a room that didn't want it.

I had been enthusiastic about clearing things out. Too enthusiastic in the case of a roasting tin, which I donated and missed almost immediately. A neighbour lent me one for Sunday lunch. It didn't fit the oven either. We ate something else, and I measured the oven before looking for a replacement.

Getting used to the rooms

The kitchen window faces south. In the old house I switched on a lamp even in the afternoon; here I sometimes pull the curtain halfway across while cooking. A chair that looked dull in the old sitting room turns a warm reddish brown in this light. I keep moving it around to find the best place, which is generally whichever place is most inconvenient for walking through.

There are sounds I have not yet learned. A pipe clicks after the heating comes on. Someone rolls a bin along the lane early on Thursdays. At first I woke for all of them. Now I mostly wake for the cat.

I miss things about the old house that I had complained about. The deep cupboard was awkward, but it held the vacuum cleaner. The back door stuck, but I knew exactly how to lift it. Here I have to pay attention to small operations that used to happen without thought.

The boxes are nearly gone. Two remain under the spare bed: photographs and papers I didn't want to sort during the move. I have written their contents on the sides so they don't become a permanent mystery. They can wait until the room is ready.

Last weekend friends came for lunch. Someone asked where the glasses were and I answered without looking. Later, when everyone had gone, I put the chairs back and washed the dishes. There was no moment when the house suddenly became home. I did notice that I had stopped calling the sitting room 'the room at the front'.