Moving house is an upheaval that most of us have the smarts to do just twice or thrice in a lifetime.  The impost of upending your life’s accumulation into cardboard boxes is unmentionable, albeit cathartic. I’m an ‘If-it-hasn’t-been-used-in-the-last-12-months-get-rid-of-it’ girl.  This invariably causes friction with my ‘I-better-hold-onto-this-in-case-I-need-it-next-decade’ husband. We managed.  We wrapped it all in newsprint, packed it in boxes, stacked it in a truck and shifted it to a neighbouring suburb within a few days, thank you very much.  I may have taken a few stealthy armloads to the wheelie bin when hubby wasn’t looking… During this madness there were a few moments when I had headspace to look around and mourn what we were unlatching ourselves from.  A red front door.  A sun-drenched window seat.  A magnolia tree.  A gate to the best neighbours in the world.  A doorjamb marked with our son’s height at birth, one, two.  A doorbell that can be heard four doors down.  I allowed a self-indulgent tear to be shed over the place we had called home for the …