One and a half weeks to go. I can’t lie. I can’t say I’m not unravelling. I can’t say I’m completely unravelling either. Because the show must go on. The house has to be packed up. But we are only sending our lift next year, which takes a bit of pressure off. Nevertheless, eighteen 23 kg bags need to be packed and here is where I need to stop and have a laugh. You can join me in a hysterical, belly laugh as you imagine the coffee spluttering sight of two adults, four red bull energy boys and eighteen suitcases.

We don’t even want to own eighteen suitcases. So I’ve bought these massive checked African bags for 30 rand each. We are going to leave South Africa in true African style. Giggle, nervous giggle.

The children are enjoying the packing process. Choosing what they want to take. My three year old has already packed his fire truck school bag, grabbed his Winnie-the-Pooh wheelie bag and plonked himself in the car. I found him there half an hour later and asked him, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To Israel,’ he replied with a huge grin. Sweet one if only it was that easy.

The packing is not too bad because I’ve majorly decluttered my house. It’s so much easier to open a half empty cupboard and pack it. Decluttering has been a God sent cleansing process. I shouldn’t have waited thirteen years to do it. These A type personalities who keep everything spick and span and have spotless shelves (even behind closed cupboards) have got it right. Where there is physical space there is room to think.

Although room to think feels like a luxury at the moment, I have to remind myself to KEEP CALM and PACK. Keep going to yoga to ground me. Keep my feet planted firmly on the floor so I don’t float away with the tremendous physical and emotional stress, which I can’t allow myself to show. Because I have four boys, because they take their cue from their Mum. So tick, tick, tick. The never ending list is being completed. Tick, tick, tick. The clock stops for no one.