Moving on - and finding what was lost

I’m in London, in the flat where I lived for 30 years but which is no longer my home. My ex lives here and is in the process of buying me out. So I’ve come to collect my belongings, with the help of two dear friends who have a van and kindly offered to help. I’m grateful not just for the practical assistance but also for the emotional support. I’m lucky to have such kindhearted people in my life.

Last night I attended another friend’s birthday party, where I caught up with my cousin MissElaineous and we chatted to Grayson and Philippa Perry. A few people asked me how I was and I replied “fine” which was a total lie as I’m not fine and probably won’t be for some time. “Soldiering on” would have been closer to the truth.

But I’m glad I went. My friend’s birthday parties are always special and this one was no exception. There was so much love in the room, and the catering was superb. One of the men serving drinks was from São Paulo. Refilling our glasses, he told us his nickname was ‘Topper Upper’ and we both laughed. I don’t think he fully appreciated the joke but he took it in good humour.

Today I’ve been busy packing things into boxes in preparation for the big move tomorrow afternoon. Being here is strange. It no longer feels like home but everywhere I look there are reminders of past lives and happier times.

There’s the wooden floor I laid in the living room shortly after moving in, the mosaic tiles I painstakingly inlaid in each step of the spiral staircase, the full length mirror I customised with the leftover tiles, the enormous abstract artwork I spent hours painting with layers of acrylics, the various bits of home decor my ex and I chose together.

All of these will remain here, as will the bulk of the furniture. I already have what I need. Most of my things will fit into boxes - books, clothes, CDs, DVDs. There’s an office chair and a desktop computer, a few paintings and some kitchen appliances. I threw a lot of things out and have probably packed some things I don’t really need and will end up taking to a charity shop in the not too distant future.

But it’s better than the alternative. The last time I packed in a hurry, I accidentally threw away a cookery book given to me by my mother when I left home for college a lifetime ago. She’d already taught me to cook the basics, but was worried that I’d starve or end up “living like a student” on tins of beans and takeaways.

“You need to keep your strength up,” she said, which to her mind meant good old fashioned, home cooked meals, the likes of which she prepared for us on a daily basis.

The book is nothing special - just an old, battered volume from the milk marketing board, filled with recipes requiring pints of milk, pounds of butter and gallons of cream. Among them is the recipe my mum used to make her Christmas cake, along with her handwritten notes.

I’ve long since committed the recipe to memory, but after mum died in 2024 it took on a whole new meaning and I was heartbroken to have lost the book.

So I’m pleased to inform you that today I found it, tucked away behind a box full of CDs. I was so happy I could have wept.

I still have some packing left to do, but tonight I’m winding down and having an early night. Tomorrow is a big day. I need to keep my strength up.

© 2026 Paul Burston