If ever I doubted that I lead a charmed life, now would not be a moment to do so. Here I type on a heavily carved, glass-topped dinning table in Kampala, to the soundtrack of an extraordinarily versatile and competent cover band at the nearby Faze2 restaurant.
Meanwhile, eight time zones and 7,061 miles away, a person who can only be described as the Heroic Husband, is single-handedly packing up our entire apartment, ready for our move from Roosevelt Island back to Manhattan on Tuesday.
Not only is moving bad enough — one of life’s more stressful events — but our family has what one moving company described as “being able to fit an amazing amount into the space that you have.” So Jay has been packing everything from fiddly 1 x 1 Legos to the colourful contents of my booby-trapped jewelry tree; two floor-to-ceiling bookcases and my four-foot wide, red feather angel wings. (Note to self, *must* wear those wings for Halloween.)
Even more admirable is that he’s been doing all this with the patience and optimism of a saint! Admittedly, the incentive is huge: a new home on the top floors of a brownstone on Woody Allen’s favourite block.
Thanks to Jay’s genius, home will now be in the landmarked, historic district of Carnegie Hill on Manhattan’s East Side. A sunny and quiet block with a private, 500-square-foot roof deck, amazing transportation access, a stroll to Calvin’s new school and Central Park. Now the only thing missing is to ensure appreciation of the person who is making it all happen! This is a start.