I have now come to the saddest moment in my story. I mean, in my dollhouse story. On April 9, 2008 I got a new job. A great job, but it involved moving from Sweden to England which was a huge move in every respect. This is when I started writing my other blog, and this is what I wrote on July 1. All the way from April until August when we moved I pretended that whatever was happening in my 1:1 life did not concern my dollhouse life, and I went on building straircases that I knew very well would soon have to be pulled down. We were moving to a very small rented house, but I knew that the dollhouse had become so important that I had to hold on to it. I waited until the very last possible moment to tear the dollhouse down, but eventually I had to do it. I took pictures of dismantling it - a reverse process of building, but I deleted them afterwards because it was so sad.
Out of our seventy moving boxes, three were filled with my dollhouse things. Not only furniture, dolls and all the small things, neatly wrapt, but all materials: the famous venetian blinds, photo frames, building blocks, beads, fabrics, lolly sticks, chopsticks, buttons, paint, glue, brushes, craft knives. This is what I wrote about packing.
I didn't know whether I would be able to rebuild the dollhouse, or even whether I would have space to do it, or whether I would have time to do it. Until I got the job, I was on sick leave, and miniature making was a life line and the best therapy.
However, since I am writing this, the story obviously had a happy ending. Or, rather, it is a neverending story.