There’s nothing I love more than moving. No. Wait. Sorry. That’s my lobotomised self coming through. What I should have said is that I HATE moving. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. It practically makes me feel suicidal, so deep is my enmity towards it. Not moving into a new space and all the promise that that holds, that’s pretty cool actually. It’s more the packing of endless boxes, realising how much crap one has unconsciously accumulated and tussling with oneself about whether to continue to hoard or throw overboard. Then there’s the redirection of mail (we are still enjoying our current redirection thanks) and the cancelling of bills and services followed quickly (or happening simultaneously) by reconnecting services and changing addresses on absolutelyeverydamnthing. That’s what I hate. Oh and loading and unloading large trucks and watching unnervingly hairy 18 year olds mangle furniture. I’m still smarting from the last move (a mere 10 months ago) when aformentioned reptilian brained teenagers placed our microwave oven on top of our beautiful wooden hall table WITHOUT anything inbetween. Massive scratching still visible. Teenager strangely never heard from again…
So, here we are again. 10 months into the second tenancy that ends with our house being sold out from under us. (Bitter? Moi?). After only just really getting settled in, we are now required to move. Our tenancy runs out in November and after that it’s a ‘month by month’ while the owner tries to sell. We had our first open for inspection on Saturday. Am I the only person who secretly resents unknown persons wandering freely through my inner sanctum? I know its actually hypocritical as we are out doing the self-same thing every Saturday. But still. It’s me. Harrumph.
The hubble starts a new job on Monday and has this week off, so we have actually started the nauseating job of packing. We figure that if we do it slowly but methodically, it will be more bearable and, perhaps, less a case of throwing everything into boxes pell mell, forgetting to label them and then spending 2-hours trying to find the kettle and cups. We shall see. I can’t even bear the thought of what’s lurking under the house (usually big hairy arachnids). Shudder.
Never mind. As one door shuts (literally) another opens. We might be buying a house. The hubble accidentally stumbled upon a fantastic house on Saturday. I’d like to explain about this happy accident because it will also tell you a lot about my husband. He was returning from his visit to the dentist* (first time in 4 years) and saw an ‘Open for Inspection’ sign. He had a quick shufty around said property – no go. He got in his car and pootled on, saw another sign, realised that it was well out of our price range and carried on driving. He saw an interesting road he liked the look of, turned into it, saw a sign for ANOTHER open for inspection and turned towards it. 15 minutes later i get a call from a (trying not to sound too excited) husband demanding that I join him at my earliest convenience. 10 minutes after that (and with only 5 minutes remaining of the inspection) I arrived. Looked around the house, loved what I saw and entered into frantic whispered discussion about buying said property. Now we are currently engaged in organising a mortgage, inspecting the property again with family (tomorrow) and plotting to buy. Very exciting stuff. The location is wonderful. So secluded (and at the end of an unsealed dirt road), in amongst the trees and so ‘country’ that we share a sheep (cum lawnmower) with our two neighbours! Did I mention that our other neighbour has a pony? I’ll keep you posted. We could be homeowners by the weekend. Yikes! By the way, our new home is so remote that our home comes complete with this sign.
In anticipation of this potential move and in anticipation of the painting frenzy it will surely bring, I went out and bought Beanie some lovely ‘big girl’ bedding for her new bed. (It’s actually her daddy’s old single bed but we are going to paint the stripped pine white and make it more girly for her). The bed set is gorgeous. Here are my rather pathetic photos of it.
Well, I must go. My daughter is brandishing a rubicks cube at me and muttering darkly about the ‘miaow’. I fear for the life of our poor chubby Poohsey. New words are emerging daily from our nearly 2-year olds mouth, not least of which is ‘Oh, this is nice,’ and ‘this is licious!’ I just love it.
*the lucky bastard has perfect teeth. Not so much as a coffee stain on his pearly whites (though he did have full headgear for most of his adolescence). It will reveal even more about him to know that it didn’t bother him in the slightest to have great wads of metal coming out of him from (almost) every orifice and he went on to star as Jesus in Godspell!). I, on the other hand, have only to think of going to the dentist in order to need a root canal. HarrbloodyRumph!