Slow moving

For five days, I have been trying to move into a place of my own, after six months spent in my parents' tiny two-bedroom flat with three generations crowded together. At least I have a place to move into, and this month's rent is - near-miraculously - paid, but considering how little stuff I have left after last year's throw&give-everything-away-before-moving-to-the-other-side-of-the-globe extravaganza, it is proving quite a job to complete the move. On Thursday, my mother and I drove to the mökki (summer cottage) to fetch my crockery, some lamps, and other sundries. The weather was gloriously wintry - snow on the ground, frost on the trees, a haze in the air and the sun shining through it. (Giddy with photographic anticipation I shot away on the Pentax, until I realised I had forgotten the damn memory card in the reader. The camera's internal memory will only hold seven shots, and I don't have the technical know-how to get them out of the internal memory anyway) (yes you may laugh at me). We couldn't drive all the way to the mökki, as I worried about the car sinking into the snow and us being stuck in the middle of nowhere. We had to leave it at the nearest "bigger" road and walk the last two-three hundred metres, which is fully ok, except when loading the car with stuff. We packed my kitchenware into boxes and pulled them to the car on sleds. It took as four or five round trips with the sleds to get the stuff loaded. I was peeved all day about the camera and my lost photos.