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In order to clear my mind, we (yes, the whole household has come along for this particular ride) must first clear the study – a fancy name for a room with two doors, one directly across from the bathroom, the other leading off the kitchen, and together forming a most excellent circuit for young boys, with or without underpants on their heads, chasing each other around and around around.

In order to clear the study, we must first clear the studio – a fancy name for a lined, but leaking shed.

And in order to clear the studio we must first clear the shed – a fancy name for a small toolshed down the back, unlined and also with a leak.

Boxes which have moved from house to house to a shed in the Riverland while we were overseas, then from house to house to here, have been dealt with. Finally. Treasures uncovered. Boyfriend catchers from Mexico and the shoes I wore on the trans-Siberian train. If I blog them, I say, then I can throw them out. Long-standing what-should-we-do-with-these puzzles solved. The towels are rain-damaged now and put in the hard rubbish pile. A box of glasses we got as a wedding present. Who did give us those? No, no, I’m sure it’s our wedding, not your twenty first.

So, that’s the shed. Next week, the studio.