Note to self

I’ve learned a few things in the last month. One, when they say that moving is more stressful than divorce, I’m inclined to believe it. Two, when they say never to trust a man when you ask him the question “is this too short” they know what they’re talking about. So all this time and all I’ve learned is that you should always pay a removalist and that if I’m wondering if it’s too short, then Bingley is a crap judge.

I’m sure there have been other things in there, but they seem less important. I jump started the car Tuesday, in the middle of a crowded shopping centre, after removing various pieces of plastic to actually get to the battery. I was pretty proud of that considering I’ve never done it before and was secretly worried I was going to electrocute myself. Unbelievably though it worked. And now I have a mobile battery unit for the car should I ever find myself in a similar situation. I haz skillz.

I missed the internet desperately but got so much done. I wonder if the two may possibly, even the tiniest bit be related? The house is cleaner and more organised and I’m more active, but I felt disconnected (pun unintentional). I missed having someone always at my fingertips to chat to. Recipes within a single google and my daily funny pages, the Gen Y version of the comic strips of yore.

Speaking of “the house”, I am of course referring to the new one. New being a bit of a misnomer for a house that was presumably built around a century ago. It is a beautiful house, full of character and high ceilings and light – so much beautiful natural light. And the trees! Oh how I love trees. But it isn’t home yet. I feel like I’m visiting, even with all my crap knee-deep over the floor. I can’t quite get over our tiny little place being stripped bare and scrubbed clean of our presence. Of leaving the wisteria and the banksia rose, scraggly as they might be behind. There aren’t any memories here yet, and we are still awkward with each other. This isn’t “our” street yet, nor “our” living room, or bedroom, or kitchen. It’s all just make believe. But we’ll get there.

The girls love it. They woke up on the first morning at dawn and raced downstairs to pedal their bikes up and down the drive way, giggling uproariously. Possibly not the best way to welcome ourselves to the neighbourhood at 5am on a Sunday morning. But their enthusiasm for the place is infectious. I only wish the Possum shared it. He has not been so happy. I’ve been stressed and exhausted which has been bad for his food supply which has lead to much crankiness all round. He is a delightful snugly, smily baby, but his sleeping has been… not so good. Almost non existent really. We look forward to the return of normality very shortly.

Oscar the black and white cat reacted interestingly to the new house. After being abducted and put into his travelling apparatus, we let him out in the dining room. He refused to come out, mewling pitifully from within his soft cage. The smell of dog in the house had him quivering uncontrollably. After 3 hours or so he finally emerged, and hid behind the fridge for another few hours. We would occasionally get up to check on him while he crouched in the darkness, scratch him behind the ears and try and reassure him, but he was having none of it. Much later that night he crept around the skirting boards getting his bearings before jumping up onto our bed and nuzzling his way under the covers. A place he barely left for the next 3 days.

Looking at all that needs to be done I want to stay in bed too. With a block of chocolate and my latest embarrassing vice by a certain Ms Meyer. But as we are hosting a certain 3 year old's birthday party on Sunday I had best get to it.

I'm sorry for such a protracted absence. I've not ever left it so long before since I started this blog. And there is so much to remember! Not least of all, Jennifer, if you are reading this some time in the future, then yes it IS worth all that money to pay for a removalist and cleaner. Truly. Do not ever do it to yourself again.