The thing about moving is that—there’s a lot of things about moving. It is horridly hard work. I left home 8 years ago and have only moved twice since then, mostly because all my flatmates have been lovely (I’ve flatted with the same two women for the last 6 years; one of them is Field and the other, who I shall call Nish, is leaving the country soon to have adventures in Europe) but also because moving is a fucking pain in the ass.
We’re not moving for thirty days, and I’ve done a reasonable job so far of sorting out my shit, and in fact I’ve had a lot more time to get organised this time round—house settlements taking much longer than the “three weeks’ notice” required by standard NZ tenancy law—but I still hate the process. At some point before settlement we’re hoping we can get access to the new place so that we can take detailed measurements of every room and note where the powerpoints are and suchlike; doing that will help a lot.
So far I’ve sorted out the power, phone, and internet; got the cats a vet appointment and booked them into the cattery (they’ll have a much better time away from the two houses during the Great Move); and booked the movers. Apart from packing, we’re in a pretty good state to actually move, and Field and I haven’t started really packing yet because Nish is taking all her stuff away in a week and we want to make sure nothing gets mixed up. But it’s still a grand adventure, and I find myself wondering how I’m ever going to know whether, for example, a plumber we hire is decent. Luckily, Field has a builder uncle who will probably be a rich source of contacts, and her mum lives in Tawa too.
At the moment I’m sorting through the piles of miscellaneous crap that lives on the top of my dresser, and chucking out makeup I don’t wear and, like, random receipts that have probably been there since 2009 (the problem with not moving much, and not being a particularly tidy person, is that this kind of thing accumulates and then has to be dealt with when a move is impending). I’m trying to be fairly ruthless about it, mainly because we’re probably not moving again for another decade, and so far that’s working well.
After that, I’ve got one shelf of one of my bookcases to go through (which will be really fast); all the other shelves have books on them and I’ve culled already, but this shelf I’d reserved to Put Things On, and so now it’s got a collection of law texts, hankerchiefs, old diaries, and sellotape on it. I don’t know what’s with the sellotape. Then there’s the top of my tall bookcases—home of the curtains that originally went with this room, some old soft toys, and a hat that doesn’t fit, and under my bed.
Then—the rest of the house awaits. The kitchen can’t really be done until much closer to moving, but I’m planning on boxing all of my books and surviving on the internet and ebooks pretty soon after Nish’s stuff leaves, since books are easy to pack and I think I’ll feel much more organised once that’s done.
There’s a few other things to sort out: cancelling my old insurance, and organising a plumber to install the washing machine that we need to buy for the new place, but that can all wait until I’m back at work on the 4th.
I guess once the next couple of months are over I won’t have to do this again for years and years—which is indeed a comfort.