Wednesday 5 August 2009

Countdown to the move

You know, each time I move house I say the same thing to myself (and to everyone else who will listen):

Never again.

Then Charles Laughton enters in a barrister's wig and calls me a chronic and habitual liar.  He's right.

The thing is, moving bites.  Not because of the fear of transplanting oneself to a new place (and in our case those places have been and are going to be really new), but because one ends up living in limbo at both ends of the relocation process.  And even though that limbo does have an end, there are couple of months when it seems interminable.

Take my dining room.  Or what used to be my dining room.  It's got forty-some-odd boxes in it and the remainder of its flat surfaces are strewn with all the little items that are destined for air freight.  I've managed to carve out a small wedge for my computer, calendar, and moving notebook, but that's about it.

The kitchen is just as bad.  Most pots, pans, and utensils are either packed away or arranged in a sort of stainless-steel-house-of-cards so that Mr Air Freight Surveyor Man can come in and assess whether they'll fit in to our 1,000-lb. allowance.  Just the other day I had to rifle through box number B-243 and dig out my quiche pan.  (See, there ARE benefits to being anal retentive well-organised.)

All the pictures have been taken down from the walls.  There aren't any fresh flowers anymore because the vases have been boxed up.  Our carpets look as if the Battle of the Bulge had been fought on them (twice), as hoovering is now a practical impossibility.

And it's all going to get worse before it gets better.

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