Not the best weekend …
It started on Friday: what felt like the entirety of a cold descending upon me in 30 minutes. I bargained with my body: 'Body,' I said, 'this is moving weekend. You need to be in tip-top form! None of this near-death for you!'
'I don't feel at all well,' my body replied.
The magnificent editorial assistant of fandom excellence (who is going to be in Florida in a few months - all tips re Harry Potter tourism will be gratefully received) dragged me out of the building to look at Harry Potter pyjamas. In a febrile fit, I managed not to buy a Hogwarts sleeping shirt (old gym gear will keep me in cold weather sleepwear for at least the next three years!), but I did buy the first two series of Once Upon a Time, and I am not ashamed! At the end of my wander round the shops and a spot of lunch, I had perked so considerably that I began to hope I had dodged the lurgy.
I had not dodged the lurgy.
Saturday saw me wake without a voice. We had to take the train up to the mountains to borrow a car from my magnificent boss, I sat and shivered and read Caitlin Moran's new novel (startling amounts of masturbation, on the whole funny, convincing and very Decent Human) on the train up and then peered anxiously through walls of rain on the drive back down.
Happily we got back to a sunnier city than the one we had left, and picked up the keys without incident.
And drove the first carload of bags and boxes to the new house.
And were horrified.
There was one thing wrong with this house when we inspected it: one of its rooms had been remade into a sound studio, with thick insulation on the walls. We had an agreement that this would be fixed before we moved in.
It's now worse. The landlord's own condition report lists the state of the walls as 'stained, scuffed, mouldy …'
The good news is that NSW law is very clear and that a mouldy premises is a clear violation of the tenancy agreement on the part of the landlord. There is ample precendent for this situation, all of which agrees that the tenants can walk away if the problem isn't fixed. So I have written to the agents and sent photos, expressing disappointment and dissatisfaction and asking that the situation be remedied and the room re-walled (it's just painted plasterboard, so this is not a huge expense). I'll also compromise and take a rent reduction and agreement that we can remedy the situation ourselves. Otherwise, we're back to bloody house hunting! ARGH!
Hoping for the best, we took some more boxes over today. At one point, I noticed that Mr B had left both the front door and the gate of our current house open. I shut the door and ran through the house conducting a quick cat census. Two girl cats. No boy kitten cat. I looked in the cat run. I looked through the house again. Mr B came back in and I whispered to him that Rusketus was revisting his Houdini impersonations. He told me that there was no way the cat could have got past him and went to find him.
Five minutes later, he accepted that there was indeed a way, and that Ruus had found it. He then abandoned me to take another carload over to the new house. I did a few laps of the front lane, talking to several pedestrians and a cyclist. This was made more difficult by me not having a voice. A man walked by with two big dogs: I consoled myself with the fact they looked like nice big dogs … I peered into my neighbours' yards, no neighbours and no kitten. I checked the Thai takeaway on the corner, where cats have been known to beg for chicken. I squinted at the road and the railway: no still grey-and-tan forms.
Accepting he was lost, I went over to the vet to report him missing. We do have a good system here, and microchipped cats are often returned. The vet nurse was reassuring and talked me through the report steps, then suggested I walk the whole block and doorknock as many people as possible so the word would spread and more sets of eyes would be looking. This was my plan, but as I walked back to start, I saw a jaunty little creature padding his way up through the nature strip that borders the railway, very pleased with himself.
'Ruus!' I whispered. 'Come here and have a cuddle!' There followed a few minutes of muppetry, which ended in him being caught. I decided to shut the gate as I brought him in, he took advantage of my one-armed hold to fling himself upside-down and sink his rear claws into my face.
I can apparently whisper 'You fiendish little fucker!' really loudly. The nice lad walking past was very sympathetic.
To top things off, last night, laryngitis morphed into ghastly plague, so I have spent the whole day packing, shaking, writing cross but reasonable letters and berating myself for not spending less over the last 10 years as I could easily have bought a house with what I have spent on travel, books and quality moisturiser alone. Well, at least a third of a decent house in Sydney, but a whole house in Tasmania or parts of the mountains!
'I don't feel at all well,' my body replied.
The magnificent editorial assistant of fandom excellence (who is going to be in Florida in a few months - all tips re Harry Potter tourism will be gratefully received) dragged me out of the building to look at Harry Potter pyjamas. In a febrile fit, I managed not to buy a Hogwarts sleeping shirt (old gym gear will keep me in cold weather sleepwear for at least the next three years!), but I did buy the first two series of Once Upon a Time, and I am not ashamed! At the end of my wander round the shops and a spot of lunch, I had perked so considerably that I began to hope I had dodged the lurgy.
I had not dodged the lurgy.
Saturday saw me wake without a voice. We had to take the train up to the mountains to borrow a car from my magnificent boss, I sat and shivered and read Caitlin Moran's new novel (startling amounts of masturbation, on the whole funny, convincing and very Decent Human) on the train up and then peered anxiously through walls of rain on the drive back down.
Happily we got back to a sunnier city than the one we had left, and picked up the keys without incident.
And drove the first carload of bags and boxes to the new house.
And were horrified.
There was one thing wrong with this house when we inspected it: one of its rooms had been remade into a sound studio, with thick insulation on the walls. We had an agreement that this would be fixed before we moved in.
It's now worse. The landlord's own condition report lists the state of the walls as 'stained, scuffed, mouldy …'
The good news is that NSW law is very clear and that a mouldy premises is a clear violation of the tenancy agreement on the part of the landlord. There is ample precendent for this situation, all of which agrees that the tenants can walk away if the problem isn't fixed. So I have written to the agents and sent photos, expressing disappointment and dissatisfaction and asking that the situation be remedied and the room re-walled (it's just painted plasterboard, so this is not a huge expense). I'll also compromise and take a rent reduction and agreement that we can remedy the situation ourselves. Otherwise, we're back to bloody house hunting! ARGH!
Hoping for the best, we took some more boxes over today. At one point, I noticed that Mr B had left both the front door and the gate of our current house open. I shut the door and ran through the house conducting a quick cat census. Two girl cats. No boy kitten cat. I looked in the cat run. I looked through the house again. Mr B came back in and I whispered to him that Rusketus was revisting his Houdini impersonations. He told me that there was no way the cat could have got past him and went to find him.
Five minutes later, he accepted that there was indeed a way, and that Ruus had found it. He then abandoned me to take another carload over to the new house. I did a few laps of the front lane, talking to several pedestrians and a cyclist. This was made more difficult by me not having a voice. A man walked by with two big dogs: I consoled myself with the fact they looked like nice big dogs … I peered into my neighbours' yards, no neighbours and no kitten. I checked the Thai takeaway on the corner, where cats have been known to beg for chicken. I squinted at the road and the railway: no still grey-and-tan forms.
Accepting he was lost, I went over to the vet to report him missing. We do have a good system here, and microchipped cats are often returned. The vet nurse was reassuring and talked me through the report steps, then suggested I walk the whole block and doorknock as many people as possible so the word would spread and more sets of eyes would be looking. This was my plan, but as I walked back to start, I saw a jaunty little creature padding his way up through the nature strip that borders the railway, very pleased with himself.
'Ruus!' I whispered. 'Come here and have a cuddle!' There followed a few minutes of muppetry, which ended in him being caught. I decided to shut the gate as I brought him in, he took advantage of my one-armed hold to fling himself upside-down and sink his rear claws into my face.
I can apparently whisper 'You fiendish little fucker!' really loudly. The nice lad walking past was very sympathetic.
To top things off, last night, laryngitis morphed into ghastly plague, so I have spent the whole day packing, shaking, writing cross but reasonable letters and berating myself for not spending less over the last 10 years as I could easily have bought a house with what I have spent on travel, books and quality moisturiser alone. Well, at least a third of a decent house in Sydney, but a whole house in Tasmania or parts of the mountains!