Rabbits in the headlights: Moving house
I hate moving house. I just hate it. And given that, I seem to have done it a rather large number of times. For the third time in three years, I am shovelling my stuff into a van and dragging my harassed backside off to a new home.
Once I'm in I'll be fine. I quite like the challenge and excitement of a new house. I enjoy settling in and putting my own stamp on a home. It's just the physical act of moving an entire household from one place to another that I really cannot stand. The hours and hours of wrapping, the piles of boxes, the organisation, the losing of a favourite bear, your clean knickers, the kettle....It's a feat matched only by the circus moving town.
I'm looking around my house now, three days before the removal van turns up and, I'll be honest here, I've done nothing. Not a sausage. Zilch. Nada. Nothing whatsoever at all. I have not put so much as a single packing box together.
I ought to be panicking, but we are now so hopelessly close to moving date and I am so woefully disorganised that I seem to have gone through that state and onto a plateau of blank nothingness. I am a rabbit in headlights. There is so much to do that I am physically capable of doing nothing at all.
The time has come to do what all mature women do when faced with a problem of such proportions. I am throwing money at it. One phone call tomorrow morning, a slap round the face for my credit card, and the problem will be solved.
When the removal people arrive on Friday afternoon, I will still have done nothing. I probably won't even have washed up. But because I have parted with flipping great wedges of cash, the removal men will not mind in the least.
Instead, they will roll uniformed sleeves up burly muscular forearms (in my head, at least) and they will pack for me. Anything that isn't nailed down will be wrapped, boxed, and driven to my new location whilst I take the kids out for a leisurely lunch.
This does mean I will have to brave out some small invasions of privacy. Will they peek into my knicker drawer? Will they snigger over the contents of my medicine cabinet? I no longer care. If revelation of thongs and creams is the price I pay to escape the mountainous boxes then privacy be dammed.
Bring in the hired muscle. I'm moving out.