This year, Himself retires from the army and we move from Ottawa to Stratford, Ontario. We have been in this house for more than 18 years, longer than either of us has ever lived in one place before. I'm a fairly neat person (he's not), but the prospect of packing up books and papers, china and kitchen traps, acres of framed art and God knows what else AS WELL AS the furniture and 144 sections of terracotta drainage pipe that we use for wine racks -- well, I'm so not ready.

The first major project is replacing the kitchen stove, which happens on Friday. The gas technician comes to disconnect the old one on Thursday, so I guess supper will be pizza or something from the microwave -- come to think of it, I believe we still have some venison bourguignon in the freezer. Removing the carcass will be a bit of a challenge, as the kitchen is on the second floor of the house and the space through which the old stove must pass on its way out -- especially the gap between the handle of the refrigerator and the kitchen island -- is only about an inch bigger than the stove itself. Then, as the delivery guys are bringing the new one in, Himself and I will be promptly down on our marrowbones to scrub out the vacated space. After eighteen and a half years of cooking, it's going to be an icky job.

Then the carpenters come in to tear the electricity-devouring light fixtures out of the bathrooms and replace them with something far more modest. They will also repair all the damaged drywall in the house, including the hole in the kitchen wall where a dribble from the leaking roof found a place to pool and wreak havoc. I believe we have been ignoring that hole for some ten years now.

We have a list ...