I did not cry.
I thought I would.
I was prepared to.
Hubby was convinced of it.
But I was brave, and I did not shed a tear.
Besides, the bare rooms no longer resembled our loving home.
As my eyes swept the plain, clutter free carpets and walls, I couldn’t help thinking how unfriendly the whole place appeared.
Although the happy memories were still floating around in my head.
Plenty of joyful occasions to be remembered.
The first dinner party where the easy chocolate mousse proved not to be so easy. Luckily I found extra chocolate and strawberries in the cupboard and improvised.
Our first Christmas in the polka dot home, decorating the tree with a gingerbread man on top, and the hot and cold family buffet with Rudolph decorated cup cakes.
My girly engagement celebration, sitting around the oak table and drinking a little too much wine.
Oh and how could I forget my tapas inspired evening, followed by venturing to the bar on the corner, where my friend fell off her chair.
Pre-hen night, excitedly preparing nibbles for my long distance friend, and painting our nails shocking red in anticipation for the day and evening ahead.
Sunday sofa days with boyfriend, then fiancée, then hubby, watching films from under the duvet and ordering take aways.
Saturday nights with friends, clinking pink wine glasses, watching the X Factor, and singing along to George Michael until an unsociable hour.
Wedding preparations, trying to choose a first dance from the CD collection, which took far too many nights. Compiling table plans on white paper plates and gluing name tags onto sepia vintage pictures.
Arriving home, as man and wife, giddy with contentedness, surrounded by wedding cards and rose cup cakes.
Packing for our honeymoon, feeling the luckiest I have ever felt in my life, imagining our honeymoon suite with private roof terrace, in sun soaked Santorini.
Arr, sweet, glorious, memories from our polka dot era.
Farwell polka dot home.
I'm going to miss you.
But I'll never forget you.
It’s been a blast.