God of the open door, by Deborah Jenkins
About two weeks ago we moved house. We said goodbye to the area we’d lived in for over thirty years (apart from a spell abroad), put the cat in a cattery, allowed ourselves to be packed into 120 boxes and drove away from London to the country. It was surreal. I clung to the steering wheel all the way there. Not because I was emotional (I’d done all that, about six months-worth) but because I was terrified. I hadn’t driven long-distance on my own for about twenty years. I’d done practice runs of course, my husband white knuckled and shaking in the passenger seat beside me, but not a solo drive. But it was moving day. We had two cars. I had no choice. I prayed… It was a pale morning, birds rising, sky the colour of curd. A timid rain whimpered thinly across the windscreen while the motorway threw up spray and lorries thundered past. I ignored them and kept repeating to myself, like a mantra, “After the Reigate exit, pull in quickly. Don’t forget… Reigate. It comes up quick...