"I've just moved into a shoebox apartment," I texted a friend.

"No," she replied, " A jewell box."

Brilliant. I will take that to my grave and, while I live here, a jewell box it is.

Helping transform it into a jewell box from a chaotic mess has been my dear friend John.

He has unpacked and hung all my clothes while I drifted in and out of sleep feeling safe and secure listening to his chatter and the soundtrack he'd chosen to aid him in such a dull task. There were comments I chose to ignore: "How many pairs of black leggings does one woman

need?"

"Why do you have a hundred pairs of shoes?"

"I'm chucking this bra out. Way past its use by date."

"Have you actually worn this?"

As if the clothes weren't enough to kill any desire to help further, he soldiered on.

Next day he arrived with pink oriental lilies I placed in a blue glass vase. Perfect. He vacuumed, planted salad greens in terracotta pots on my sunny deck, lugged umpteen boxes to my garage for storage, rearranged my furniture, vacuumed again, made ice, bought champagne, chardonnay, Thai food, Japanese food and rubbed eucalyptus oil on my leather couch to remove spilt glue.

I am truly grateful for his help, including a short lecture on "stop the lonely talk".

His gifts to me of help, love and friendship will nestle in my jewel box forever.