A moving experience

Moving home should be simple, shouldn’t it? A bit of forward planning is all that it takes. So, a couple of weeks ago I started organising my move. Book a removal van, simple. Ask for a couple of days off work; after all that’s all I’d need. Contact the gas folk, the electric people. Arrange for my mail to be redirected in case I forgot to tell everyone my new address. I remembered to tell the council, the water company, my bank, and most important of all, my internet provider. Then of course I had to organise a land line, it’s cheaper than using my cell phone. The new place needed a fresh coat of paint; as much as I loved the 60’s, I felt it really needed bringing up to date.My lovely daughter and her dear partner stepped in to complete that task for me. The old place need a jolly good clean. A local company was contracted to dust, hoover and wash.

Downsizing always creates problems. It involves shifting a whole load of stuff that’s been moved from home to home without ever being unwrapped, cleaned or looked at. Sentimentality has no place in such a situation. Things I’d forgotten I’d had, simply had to go. I organised a boot sale to get rid of a lot of it. It was quite sad selling a treasured possession for a few pence and seeing it disappear into the distance under some strangers arm. What wasn’t sellable went to the local rubbish dump. Farewell fond memories, you’ll live on in some landfill site and soon be forgotten. You may even pop up again in a hundred years time and end up in a museum or an antique shop.

As the day approached the packing process reached fever pitch. Bags of this and boxes of that, where was it all to go? On the day of the move the sun looked down mockingly on the frantic scene. The cleaners arrived with mops and buckets and the furniture van slid into a narrow space outside my door. Three hours later it was loaded and started its journey to my new home a few streets away.

By teatime all was calm. I stood in my new apartment in a daze, looking around at teetering piles of my possessions, most of which were in the wrong rooms.

First things first, a glass of wine. Then I needed to make a call. My land line wasn’t working. I called British Telecom on my cell phone only to be told that there was a fault, and I needed to be patient for a few days. OK, I’ll email. My internet was not connected as promised. A call to my provider resulted in me being informed that they had made an error and I’d have to wait a few days for my service.  I picked up the mail from the mat. The first one I opened was a letter informing me that my postal redirection would be delayed for a week. There was another missive from the gas company informing me that a new meter should have been installed the day before had been put on hold for three weeks.

I’ve arranged some of the new bits and pieces I purchased for my tiny bathroom and they look ridiculous. All of my old stuff which seemed so small in the old place looks huge here. Oh dear.

It’s now four days on, and gradually things are beginning to happen. My phone spluttered into life yesterday and as you can tell, I now have access to the internet. I still have to wait for several other things that were promised but not delivered, but my apartment is beginning to look less of a bomb site and more like a disorganised mess! At least that’s progress!

I’ve decided I’ll never move again. The next box to leave this apartment will be the one carrying me! Hang on a minute; I remember saying that last time I moved, and the time before.