Thin ice - going down slow.

Feeling low this morning. Real low, like I haven't been here for a while.

I've spent 14 years moving into this house. Let me explain. Kate lived here before, bought the house and converted it. Exposed the timbers, fitted a woodburner, moved in cosy and lovely. Happy and serene when I found her, amongst her neatness. Everything in it's place.

So. 14 years. I gradually moved things in. A bookshelf here, pile of magazines there. Making little inroads into Kate's life. Kate's house. Gradually it became my home. And then the kids home.

But somehow to me, always Kate's house.

Now. It's full. Full to bursting. Alice in a corridor of a bedroom, with Robert beyond. Landing a no-go zone of software boxes, reduntant Macs, half-sewn cushions, half repaired toys... And stuff.

Past few days I've been asking the kids to tidy a shelf of their books. Just the one. One. Solitary. Shelf. It swiftly degenerated into a fight, smouldered through the night, and flared up again this morning.

I gave up. Lit the fire, made a cup of tea and went back to bed. Left them to it for half an hour. Well. Think they've worked it out. Realised the pointless bickering wasn't helping, turned around and started helping each other. I know it won't last, but it's beautiful when it happens.

But it hasn't helped me yet. Not yet.

Cold today outside. Over the months, I've formed a bit of an icy shell myself. Found out today, it's quite thin. Beneath it? Well another layer of detached confusion.

Then the raw me.