A strange sadness, to leave the house Orla knows so well. She’s splashed in this bath since her very first week; she knows which wobbly floorboards to skip, as she leads my by the hand to bed. She knows where the raisins are kept, and the way to the park, and the best windows to watch the chickens from. She has her little habits and routines in this space, and I can’t explain to her why all of these things have to change.
In fact, I can’t even warn her that they will. One day she will go to her child minder’s and not ever come back here again. What will she think? How do I help her to understand?
I know she’ll grow to love the new house a thousand times more, but I’m sorry to be upsetting her tiny, ordered world.
I’m taking little video panaramas of every room. It sort of breaks my heart, to know she will forget her happy memories of our first little home together.
There's a chicken in my kitchen. There's a chicken in my kitchen quite a lot these days, to be honest; when she isn't there she's generally sitting on the sofa, sleeping by a radiator or, at best, [...]