My stress level..
.
...is slowly falling back to normal following the house move. I'm currently on dial-up (how deliciously primitive!) because AOL cocked-up my broadband order so I'll attempt to keep this brief.
How bad was it? My careful preparations in the weeks running up to moving day counted for nothing when the great day actually arrived. I might as well have left everything to the last minute!
IT WAS HELLISH!
For starters, Hubby was WORKING (yes, you read that correctly) and, since he was borrowing the work's van, I had to sit on my twitchy arse, occasionally pacing the box maze and chain-smoking, until he finally deigned to come home and do something. Of course, it was a huge rush job and it ended up taking about four trips in all, there and back again. No removal men with their huge shiny vans for us - mais non! Let's get the smallest van imaginable because it's free, shall we? Then, let's break our backs attempting to get the old house empty before the new people arrive. Great fun! I've been banging on to Hubby for months about getting the professionals in to move us, but he wouldn't hear of it. 'Spend all that money - no way!'
'But, think of all the needless suffering we could avoid, dearest (only, I didn't actually say 'dearest')!'
'Forget it! said he, in that confident, matter-of-fact, game-over, kind of way that always makes me want to bash him repeatedly about the head with something heavy and blunt. 'We'll do it ourselves.'
Fine!
However, in my experience, when a bloke says 'we'll do it ourselves' that usually translates as 'I'll do as little as possible and YOU can mop up everything else. Admittedly, he did do all the actual lugging from house to house (with a little help from his friends, who now think I am a total fish-wife because they did not hear me utter three words that day unless accompanied by a vile expletive or three!) but it was little old me who had to create order from chaos both before and after the move. Did he clean the house for the new people? No.The good fairies did it, just like they advised all the utility suppliers that we were moving. [/sarcasm]
'Will anyone else be moving with you to your new address?' asked one, revoltingly chipper telephone advisor.
'Not at this rate!' I answered, rather grimly!
When Mum and I arrived at the new house we literally could not get in through the front door. The chaps, in their wisdom, had dumped everything in the two reception rooms before using the hallway as an overflow dumping ground. Cat-basket in hand, I had to clamber over a king-sized mattress and a chest of drawers in order to get poor Raffy upstairs to the sanctuary of one of the, completely empty, bedrooms. You should see my fading bruises. I look like an accident victim! Thank the Valar for my mum! Between us, we got the bed upstairs and made it up ready for bedtime. We also managed to locate the kettle and a good bottle of whisky too - just the thing to wash down the codeine phosphate!
And did hubby notice that he had a bed to sleep in, and a clear hallway when he returned home from work? *snorts and rolls eyes* However, he did say, as though he'd had a light-bulb moment, that next time we move ' We really should set some money aside for a removal company to move us. ' To my credit, I did not swear at him, or start searching for a blunt instrument. I simply smiled. 'You think so? I think that's an excellent idea, my love!'
Moving house is supposed to trigger many divorces and I can't say I'm at all surprised. If there are any substantial cracks in a relationship, moving house is sure to root them out and put them under a critical strain. I'm glad to report that we are still in one piece. Things are returning to normal. I no longer resemble a character from The Exorcist and my head doesn't spin 360 degrees any more. Oh, and I've stopped that annoying habit of vomiting up nails! The cussing has settled to a more managable level too: I can speak at least four sentences before something beginning with 'F' slips in. Progress indeed!
The house still looks like we just moved in - there's a lot of building work to be done before I can unpack all those boxes - but it's finally OURS. Now, all that hurry-hurry stress has faded away to nothing. No deadlines, no solicitors, no Clampitts or Satan's hound. It's just me, him, the cat and a shedload of boxes in the house we love. Heaven!
...is slowly falling back to normal following the house move. I'm currently on dial-up (how deliciously primitive!) because AOL cocked-up my broadband order so I'll attempt to keep this brief.
How bad was it? My careful preparations in the weeks running up to moving day counted for nothing when the great day actually arrived. I might as well have left everything to the last minute!
IT WAS HELLISH!
For starters, Hubby was WORKING (yes, you read that correctly) and, since he was borrowing the work's van, I had to sit on my twitchy arse, occasionally pacing the box maze and chain-smoking, until he finally deigned to come home and do something. Of course, it was a huge rush job and it ended up taking about four trips in all, there and back again. No removal men with their huge shiny vans for us - mais non! Let's get the smallest van imaginable because it's free, shall we? Then, let's break our backs attempting to get the old house empty before the new people arrive. Great fun! I've been banging on to Hubby for months about getting the professionals in to move us, but he wouldn't hear of it. 'Spend all that money - no way!'
'But, think of all the needless suffering we could avoid, dearest (only, I didn't actually say 'dearest')!'
'Forget it! said he, in that confident, matter-of-fact, game-over, kind of way that always makes me want to bash him repeatedly about the head with something heavy and blunt. 'We'll do it ourselves.'
Fine!
However, in my experience, when a bloke says 'we'll do it ourselves' that usually translates as 'I'll do as little as possible and YOU can mop up everything else. Admittedly, he did do all the actual lugging from house to house (with a little help from his friends, who now think I am a total fish-wife because they did not hear me utter three words that day unless accompanied by a vile expletive or three!) but it was little old me who had to create order from chaos both before and after the move. Did he clean the house for the new people? No.The good fairies did it, just like they advised all the utility suppliers that we were moving. [/sarcasm]
'Will anyone else be moving with you to your new address?' asked one, revoltingly chipper telephone advisor.
'Not at this rate!' I answered, rather grimly!
When Mum and I arrived at the new house we literally could not get in through the front door. The chaps, in their wisdom, had dumped everything in the two reception rooms before using the hallway as an overflow dumping ground. Cat-basket in hand, I had to clamber over a king-sized mattress and a chest of drawers in order to get poor Raffy upstairs to the sanctuary of one of the, completely empty, bedrooms. You should see my fading bruises. I look like an accident victim! Thank the Valar for my mum! Between us, we got the bed upstairs and made it up ready for bedtime. We also managed to locate the kettle and a good bottle of whisky too - just the thing to wash down the codeine phosphate!
And did hubby notice that he had a bed to sleep in, and a clear hallway when he returned home from work? *snorts and rolls eyes* However, he did say, as though he'd had a light-bulb moment, that next time we move ' We really should set some money aside for a removal company to move us. ' To my credit, I did not swear at him, or start searching for a blunt instrument. I simply smiled. 'You think so? I think that's an excellent idea, my love!'
Moving house is supposed to trigger many divorces and I can't say I'm at all surprised. If there are any substantial cracks in a relationship, moving house is sure to root them out and put them under a critical strain. I'm glad to report that we are still in one piece. Things are returning to normal. I no longer resemble a character from The Exorcist and my head doesn't spin 360 degrees any more. Oh, and I've stopped that annoying habit of vomiting up nails! The cussing has settled to a more managable level too: I can speak at least four sentences before something beginning with 'F' slips in. Progress indeed!
The house still looks like we just moved in - there's a lot of building work to be done before I can unpack all those boxes - but it's finally OURS. Now, all that hurry-hurry stress has faded away to nothing. No deadlines, no solicitors, no Clampitts or Satan's hound. It's just me, him, the cat and a shedload of boxes in the house we love. Heaven!