So: enough of this terror we deserve to know light

At half past three this morning I was woken up by my girl cat shredding a packet of boy entrancers, ( false eyelashes). This set off an almighty fear reaction. Full on physical panic. Some of the things which went through my brain included;

1.  I have a washing machine, a freezer, one of those bags for storing plastic bags in, and an electronic juicer. In the eye's of the world this makes me an actual grown up. Actual grown ups don't decide to junk in their entire lives and move 350 miles away from pretty much everyone I know, all my support structures, and everything which allows me to pass as sane.
2. I have a cat who hunts false eyelashes, 76 bottles of nail polish, enough notebooks to open a small branch of PaperChase, and a list of boys whom I'd like to do the kissing with. Clearly, I am a fifteen year old girl. Fifteen year old girls are not allowed to decide to junk in their entire lives and move 350 miles away. Where are my parents? Why has nobody staged an intervention, and given me a stern talking to? 
3. Which mugs do I take to Whitby with me? I don't really need to take any, I'm going to be living in a place that is, literally, awash with vintage china, but I love my mugs. I'll feel sorry for the ones which get left behind. A while back I was discussing the vexed issue of which books to take with me. I may have compared my situation with that of Sophie from Sophie's Choice. I'm prepared to concede that this comparison was somewhat immoderate. Not with the mugs though, perfectly valid point to make, I reckon. So, yes to the Moomin mugs, but what about all the others? Middle Class Problem, much? I may set up a support group.
4. Do I spend £60 on buying a small external hard drive on which to store my music and films, or do I spend £350 on buying a lovely new iPod for the same purpose? Why have I convinced myself that the iPod is the sensible option. Also, why am I considering buying more underwear?
5. I need to get a divorce. Quickly. The Bounder and I are on excellent terms, but I really don't want him to be the one who gets to decide what to do with my life support machine when I fall over and concuss myself on a box of vintage crockery, or drown under the weight of cushions. Ideally, I'd quite like Guy Garvey to get to make those decisions. How does one go about arranging such a thing?
6. My beloved kittens can't come with me. They're going to live with The Bounder. They'll be fine, he luuurves them tres muchos, and lives in a lovely village with access to a fish mongers. I'm going to be an almighty wreck. I may have to take a day or two off work for weeping purposes. Even the thought of not having their gorgeous black and white faces around breaks my heart. There was weeping at four o'clock this morning. 
7. I won't know anybody. Clearly I'll never make any more friends. Even though I'm good with my own company I'm clearly going to go mad from loneliness. Obviously living in a hotel means that I won't meet anybody. Ever. 

Y'know that thing about how things seem better in the morning? Turns out that it's true. I did get back to sleep. I woke up at seven with the lyrics in this post's title in my head. Seemed perfect. The subconscious is an odd, and wonderful place. Am going to spend the day making practical plans, but first there will be coffee, and possibly cake.