Moving is the trifecta of pain; hard, relentless, and boring. I only moved 18 months ago, where did all this shit come from? While we’re on that, would you like to know how many times I’ve moved since 2007 (the year I moved to Newcastle)? Course you would.
FOURTEEN
And how many of those fourteen times since 2013?
NINE
One would think with all that experience I would implement a slick operation by now. WRONG. FUCKING WRONG. I put it off until the last three days, didn’t have enough boxes, and didn’t undertake the necessary Chucking Out Ceremony beforehand. My house is a disaster area, and it took an entire afternoon to find cupboard space for just my spices.
Everybody knows the first thing you sort out when moving is the kettle. Make sure you have a kettle in the new place so you can make yourself a brew at the drop of a hat/your will to live. Knowing, this I brought the kettle to the new place well in advance. Then I lost it. Gone. No idea. Only to find it again after the last load was taken to the house the night I finally moved in. Where had it gone? Nowhere. It was plugged into the wall, in the kitchen, in the most obvious place you’d put a kettle, the whole time. I wish I could say this was strike one but we’ve already established I’d done nothing to prepare for this move so keep your expectations low.
I arranged a mover about a month ago to take the white goods and heavy stuff. He ghosted me the morning of, so I had to get My Guy in last minute. My Guy is a no bull shit, no time wasting, quote-fluid, Moving Machine. Whatever he quotes you over text is gonna be at least £20 cheaper than the final figure, but he is strong and efficient. He also pulled Steven aside and told him to (I’m paraphrasing here) “keep me”, as I’m a good wife, like a lion, and a good driver, not like many women. Firstly, this is ironic and sad given the ignorance of his active contribution to physically separating us by helping me move. Secondly, I am like a lion so I see no lies here.
I found out later that day that the original mover had received some sad news, but fortunately I had only expressed my frustration at his not responding to me through jokes and gifs with my friends over chat, so I only felt deeply shameful and guilty when I found out, instead of extremely shameful and guilty.
The Dyson broke at a critical point in cleaning the old flat, so we just left.
On Sunday morning, the path from my porch to the van was 100% black ice. A short but treacherous journey. It was still dark when I began; I wanted the last load taken inside ASAP so I could get on with my life, and had to leave all doors bar the back gate open to avoid slipping and breaking my neck as much as possible. Genie, the dog, is not used to this place yet and she is very emotional. Whilst unpacking the van I was ever so slightly out of view. To correct this, she would stick her head through the bars of the gate and whine-cry (there was a distance of about 2.5 metres between me unloading the van and dog head through gate btw). Suddenly the whine-cry goes from impatient and insistent to blood-curdling and panicked; I get to her within a couple of seconds to find her flopping around like a fish with her head stuck in the gate, trying to pull her head back through. I engaged mum-mode and calmed her enough to slide her goose neck up to a wider point in the bars, and then back out. My new neighbour came out thinking their cat was being murdered. It’s a great start, all round.
The stopcock is seized and the cold water isolation valve under the sink does not isolate, so I can’t install my washing machine. The shower has an adjustable thermostat between the temperatures 1755C and 12355C. The toilet flush leaks, the kitchen taps leak, the hot water tap in the bathroom comes out at G Force. It’s fine though because I have no money to fix them.
The planes overhead are loud but preferable to neighbours blasting bass heavy Billie Eilish at 3am, the streets are clean, and it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas (the back gets no sun so it’s frosty from now until April).
diythefck 