It's here. The driver came back, with a friend, and together they trundled four pallets down the road, and unpacked them - leaving us to wonder what's in a lot of the boxes ("books," or "pictures," or "ornaments" still leaves a lot of guesswork). And who knows the overall amount of damage? I've so far found a rather delicate side table with two of its legs broken off; the settle with some wood snapped off the top, and so on. Time to emulate my father's handiwork at furniture mending (because in fact, most of the pieces were bought by him for a few shillings and patched up in the first place) - and also, I guess, to investigate my insurance policy for the shipping.
It's very strange having this stuff here. It seems much smaller than in Wimbledon (which is good! - otherwise, where will anything go ...?) - and, er, shabbier, and probably there was no need to have imported as much as I have. But it's still full of memories; it's still Stuff From Home. Gramsci says it smells of Simba, and is therefore weird.
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