I am never going to move
house again.
Ever.
How have I managed to accrue
so much crap over the last three years?
Answer: I had children.
It’s not just the big stuff
we’ve acquired like a sofa, beds, cots, changing tables, 5 million Ikea Billy
bookshelves, baby baths etc.
It’s all the really titchy,
sharp, plastic things that find a home in the crevices of the flat, waiting
patiently for you to tread on them when you’ve got no shoes and socks on.
I made the error of
attempting to pack up my three-year-old daughter’s room whilst she was home.
Big mistake.
EVERYTHING is important to
her.
Literally everything.
I tried to chuck out the
ripped back cover of a CBeebies magazine from November 2013. Apparently it’s
her absolute favourite page from her absolute favourite magazine.
So that’s had to go in the
moving box.
Along with a broken yoyo,
which has great sentimental value.
An imitation Barbie from the
Poundshop with one leg missing called Rosie.
An instruction manual for
Corgi boilers.
And a babygro which, not
only has a massive shit stain up the back, but I don’t think was even ours in
the first place.
And this is the FIRST box
I’ve packed.
I had visions of the next
place we live in being Scandinavian inspired.
Clean lines, white furniture
and sanded floorboards.
It would be clutter-free
with industrial lighting and large leafy plants in big terracotta pots.
Instead, we’re going to end
up living in some hoarders paradise that would make a good basis for a Channel
5 documentary.
And it’s not just the
ballache of having to pack up four lives into cardboard boxes.
It’s the emotional wrench of
leaving the flat.
It’s like when I go to get
my haircut.
For weeks I’ll look like Deirdre Barlow circa 1980 so
I book myself in for a cut.
But the morning of the
appointment, my hair suddenly seems to behave.
Instead of looking like an
early 80s perm, it’s sleek, all Yasmin Le Bon.
And I think, maybe I don’t
want to get it cut after all.
Maybe it’s fine as it is.
Our flat is suddenly looking
a bit Le Bon.
I’m walking around it, and
instead of wanting to move, I’m remembering the first time we brought both our
babies home.
How my daughter took her
first steps here.
How my son has just learnt
to crawl.
And then the whole place becomes
a Neighbours-style montage of soft focus memories.
It’s time to move on.
I do know that.
That I have
to power on through the sentimentality and get cracking on packing up the
kitchen.
Because once we’ve boxed up
all our belongings, it will just be an empty flat.
When you take the people out
of it, it’s just bricks and mortar.
It will become our 80s bad
hair day, waiting for another family to come and tame.
And we will have a new home to give a Brian May-esque make over to.
(Too many tenuous perm-based metaphors? Nope. Course not.)
Don’t miss the next You Can Take Her Home Now post:
I have no idea just how you make moving house so hilarious but you do and it's given me a real giggle as we have many of those precious pages of magazines that can't be binned.
ReplyDeleteHa ha! How long are we going to have to keep it all for?!
DeleteYou can never have too many perm based mataphors I say. I couldn't imagine moving with children - it is bad enough packing for a day trip. Best of luck with the move x
ReplyDeleteThanks Alison, I'm NEVER moving again!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete