Final destination

I'm not one to compare things to the past, as I believe in always moving forwards and I have a very bad memory. But measured by previous years, 2022 has not had the most auspicious start.

Well, that's not true. The first six days were great, as we looked forward to the global supply chain finally disgorging our furniture in Brussels. The way they do things here is to deliver through the windows, using a sort-of crane with a platform to take everything up. It's very exciting, and we were getting all our long forgotten items that it turns our we never needed in the first place back.

And then the movers dropped a box on Hannah's head. I wasn't there at the time but apparently it fell off the truck onto her when they asked her to review some paperwork. I arrived 30 minutes later with Pete and our luggage to find blood seeping through her woolen hat as she sat dazed on a cardboard covered chair, and no one had called an ambulance!! 

I threw myself on the mercy of the Belgian emergency operator, explaining "francais n'est pas mon premier langue" and soon Hannah was blue-lighted away and received eight stitches...and thankfully nothing worse. She considers it an unfortunate accident, I consider it an eight-figure personal injury payout, but the victim wins that argument.

The window loading thing was done in two days, so we were enjoying a first night in our new place when Hannah stumbled down the bottom step of the stairs. "I'd better not do that again," she laughed. And then immediately did it again, and broke her ankle. 

This time we took an Uber so as not to embarrassingly get the same ambulance drivers, and after a few days in a cast it's "only" torn ligaments and ten weeks of physio. I've spent a lot of time in the USA telling people how great a national health service is and so far I've been proved right, thank you very much.

All this was a ruse, of course, so Hannah could sit in a chair while I carried and sorted everything we have ever owned. There are now pictures on the walls, and most books on bookshelves, and things in an airing cupboard. Pete got his second vaccination shot yesterday, and we were settling into a new, normal, comfortable routine.

Then we caught Covid! Mainly because Hannah had to do a routine test before her physio appointment. She and Pete have got it; I haven't tested, following the American model that if you don't ask you can't tell. I'm isolating with them anyway, for ten days, while I wonder if my aches and brain fog are not from schlepping furniture then drinking strong Belgian beer to unwind but possibly symptoms of "the spicy cough".

So...the only way is up? Luckily we have plenty of food and chocolate, a new batch of coffee beans from a local roastery, and I'm going to see if the nearby boulangerie delivers. My French has been expanding no end: bequilles (crutches), entorse (sprained), saignement (bleeding) etc.

As ever, our doors remain open to anyone who wants to come to visit our lovely new apartment in beautiful Brussels! But to avoid calamity, wait until we're not here.

Ooh, what a cool and crazy way of moving!

And then the ambulance men came to take Hannah away.

Where does all this stuff come from?

Ah, OK, that's what I need. You can stop unpacking now.

Later: the offending foot, lovingly wrapped with my Cub Scout first aid knowledge.

The hospital doing a slightly more professional job.

But you can't keep a good woman down, even when she should be sitting down. She regretted doing a little too much a little too soon, and is now taking it easier.

Daddy's painkillers.

Sadly I did not stock up on ALL OF THESE before Covid struck.

We did a little housewarming with Pete's fondue set (a much-asked-for Christmas pressie) and ready-made fondue trays you can get in the supermarket. Very European! Or very 1970s, you decide.

And then later still...nooooooo!

Ten days isolation. Pete: obviously devastated by the news.