Moving House

Forgive me, blog, for I have sinned and fallen short. I have abandoned thee.



Now that’s over with…



I moved house last weekend. Bloody nightmare, you say? Yes, I know. I swore I was going to make this painless – pack way in advance, move things gradually, and all that jazz. Of course, no such thing happened. I was up until 6 am on Saturday night, shoving things into boxes, and alternating between shame and pride. It took two massive daddy cartons to pack my shoes. I spent half the time loving every single pair as I packed, and the other half cussing myself for being such a cliché – the girl with lots of shoes – how boring! It didn’t help that by the time I got to packing laundry, I had run out of boxes, and I had to stuff my grubby clothes into black garbage bags. Somehow, I’m sure they’ll never forgive me for the indignity of it.



So…the movers turned up on my doorstep at 7am as planned, one blonde Johnny Depp and his Bald Friend with large calves and hairy legs. It was the most random experience ever, driving round London on a quiet Sunday morning, sandwiched between two Polish guys in the front seat of their Luton truck, listening to them slagging off their manager, and wondering what the Carrot & Strawberry juice they were drinking tasted like. I really must have ‘Agony Aunt’ emblazoned on my forehead. On one hour’s sleep, my good manners were facing some measure of challenge. It was all I could do not to say, ‘Do I look like I care about your manager?’ I stuck my sunglasses on and tried to smile. They were alright, I was just really tired and emotional. You know, leaving behind my old familiar space and going to inhabit a new one…



They carried my stuff up the three flights of stairs in the new place, while I lounged in the sofa and told them where to put stuff. Seeing the new place again cheered me up. My new flatmate (let’s call her America) and I decided we’d give them something to eat and drink as they’d done a brilliant job. While I warmed the patties and poured the juice, she headed off to the bathroom where she had been changing the toilet seat when I arrived – God forbid that we should sit on a seat that some unknown couple had warmed before us.



Just as she took the old seat off and began to screw the new one on, blonde Johnny decided he had to use the toilet. He was in there for ages, and we felt like revoking our offers of goodwill. He was obviously making doo-doo. In our toilet. Some random stranger with manky dreads and spittle in the corner of his mouth was doo-dooing in our toilet. It might be no big deal to you, but bear in mind that we are a pair of obsessive compulsives – completely anal about cleaning and germs and dirt. We were there from 6pm on Friday night when we got the keys, till nearly 3am on Saturday morning, wiping down every conceivable surface with anti-bacterial potions and scrubbing. So what if the estate agents had it professionally cleaned? If you want something really clean, clean it yourself – bleach is a rhema word.



Luckily, America hadn’t screwed on our new seat when blonde Johnny’s bowels broke loose, so when he was done, she went back in (surgically gloved) to continue her seat replacement mission.



Meanwhile, upstairs, I sat down with them to do the figures and give them their cheque. After they thanked me profusely for the tip, blonde Johnny proffered his hand to say thank you. I shook his hand, because I couldn’t not, even though I hate shaking hands, and all I wondered was whether he’d washed his hands after his doo-doo. It sounds terrible, now that I’m reading what I’ve written, but I really do hate shaking hands. Refer to Terror on Tuesday Morning if you’re looking for an example of why…



Turns out he did wash them. I consulted with America later, and she confirmed that when she entered the bathroom after his stint there, she sniffed the air to see whether she’d catch a whiff of lingering handwash, and she did. Phew. Oh no, we sound terrible but we’re really friendly, promise!



Anyway, I’ve nearly finished unpacking, and I’ve decided on a bedroom décor theme. Yaay! How does Sound of Music meets Brick Lane sound? Brilliant, in my estimation – a perfect marriage between old school splendour and new school edge. Let’s see if I have the dedication to follow it through…


Any moving dramas you'd like to share, anyone?


P. S. I fear for the day my sister reads this. She already thinks I need cognitive behavioural therapy.