Arrrrrrgh.  I am not getting on with sorting out Third House for rental as fast as I should through a combination of factors:  gremlins, gremlins, ME, native disorganizational genius, deep personal reluctance imperfectly repressed and gremlins.  Did I mention gremlins?  Originally I was going to start moving [Peter’s and my] backlist to the storage warehouse last week but Atlas and I got our diaries crossed* and he showed up on Thursday when I was going to the dentist.**  ARRRRRGH.

First opportunity for a reschedule was today.  I am not sleeping well*** and I have all these CRITTERS to hurtle and Peter and Atlas are detestably early risers so they played pinochle or something till I pantingly arrived, having run the hellterror 6,728 times around the (tiny) kitchen at the cottage, including over the island and across the ceiling† while I mainlined black tea, then locked her back in her crate with her breakfast†† and threw the hellhounds in the back of Wolfgang for ballast.  We convoyed to Hrothgar’s Hall††† with Atlas going uphill at about twelve miles an hour with all that backlist dragging him down, and Peter noted lugubriously that it was too far for him to come on his bicycle.  !!!!!!!*&^%$£”!!!!!!!!  YES, IT IS.

We fell out of our various vehicles and I made a horse’s ass of myself trying to break into . . . I mean, use my honestly-acquired keys and instructions to get us into the flipping warehouse and open the loading gate.  I’d still be there‡ if Atlas hadn’t cleared his throat and indicated salient features a couple of times.  How does he KNOW?  These frelling mechanical people.  It’s like being able to do maths in your head or fly by flapping your arms.  You’re either born with the gift or you aren’t.

I took hellhounds for a sprint around the perimeter while Atlas and Peter got on with unloading.  There were sheep, white-winged doves that made me come all over Emmylou Harris and make a nice change from pigeons, and horses.  This may have possibilities:  I’ll have to look at the local footpath map.  I quite like the idea of going for six copies of THE SUNSHINE ROSE HERO AND THE OUTLAW BLUE PEGASUS CHALICE END and having a nice country hurtle with some critters while I’m at it.‡‡

I looked at the space remaining in the tiny cubicle—the barely-more-than-a-cupboard—after Atlas and Peter had made tidy box-piles against one wall, and thought dark, evil thoughts.  Then we all went home for lunch‡‡‡ . . . after which I crept, bent and oppressed with woe,§ back up to Third House and squinted, with the other eye squeezed shut, at the remaining boxes of backlist and 4,341 other people’s books still on shelves. . . .

Bottom line.  I haven’t got a prayer of getting all those books in that space.§§  Never mind the odd box of towels§§§ and maybe kitchen china too.#

So Atlas brought the next load, this time of my backlist, along since that’s what he was there for and we weren’t going to burst out of the confines of the cupboard till the third load, and I applied to the Nice Man## who runs Hrothgar’s Hall and . . . of course he’s just rented the last remaining next-size-up cupboard and only has small airplane hangar—sort of helicopter hanger—sized units left.  So I am faced with ENTIRELY READJUSTING my plans for only having stuff like backlist that we need to have available in this place and storing the big stuff in the very-slightly-cheaper, but-your-stuff-goes-away-and-you-can’t-get-at-it warehouse.

I’m so happy.  Not.

* * *

* A little like pistols at dawn, but not very

** That whole side of my head is still irregularly flaring and snarling and saying DON’T DO THAT AGAIN, OKAY?  Whimper.  But he’s not done yet.

*** I am still breathing = I am not sleeping well

† The pans hanging from the ceiling rack making a musical noise as she weaves among them like a barrel-racing Quarter horse

†† She is now getting most of her food via kong.  http://www.kongcompany.com/en-uk/

This is supposed to help keep her amused.  Rather than just chowing down the contents of her bowl faster than the speed of light^ she has to work for her meals.  Well, yes, but trust the hellcritter that belongs to me to find an alternative application.  Your dog is supposed to chew the thing:  Pav mainly throws it around.  She does some chewing . . . but mostly she throws it around.  Whang.  Whang.  WHOP.  Whang.  As musical accompaniments go I prefer the ting-tong of clashing pans.

^ This is totally true, you know.  Scientists should investigate the physics of bullie food-inhalation.  I’m sure the resulting warp drive would be better than dilithium crystals.  We might make it to the stars after all.

††† Big storage facilities are creepy.  I’m sure there are some really excellent horror stories about big storage facilities.  Don’t bother to tell me:  there’s no way I’m going to read any of them.

‡ And the hellterror would be very cross and HUNGRY.

‡‡ ::Urgently looking for reasons not to hate everything about renting Third House::

‡‡‡ Variously.  The lunch part did not include the hellhounds.  Siiiiiiiigh.  Hellterror says, Put me in, coach.  I can handle it.  I’ll even play with that dumb rubber thing if it makes you happy.

§ Including non-eating hellhounds

§§ Also I think there’s a Pit and the Pendulum vibe and with every box you deposit in the space the walls move a little closer together.

§§§ There’s nothing the hellterror enjoys more than a nice towel shredding,  so I can use the back-up

# We don’t need any hellterror help for breakages.  Although she did take out the plate glass window of my ex-glass-fronted bookcase about a week ago.  I spent hours sweeping, scrubbing and patting the floor for splinters.  Also moaning.  Moaning goes with this kind of work.  The kitchen floor hasn’t been that clean in years.

## He probably needs a name.  He will probably appear on these pages again.  Also, he has two adorable spaniels.  One of them wags her tail in her sleep.