In my case I’m moving because my better half has gotten a new job across the other side of the city and doesn’t fancy a 2 hour, 2 bus commute to and from work each day. Seeing as I work in the city centre I theoretically have an easy commute from anywhere.
So we’re packing our whole lives into boxes and moving into a smaller, more expensive apartment in a ‘cooler’ part of town, whatever the hell that is.
Packing can be quite a demoralising exercise when you realise that you’re filling box after box with clothes that no longer fit you and photos and memorabilia from your J1 trip back in ’06. I find myself wondering what the hell I’ve been doing for the past 5 years, aside from eating too many Oreo Double Creams and staring at my brand new runners sitting, lonely and unused, by the door.
For sure there’s something exciting about moving house. Getting the keys to your place and beginning the process of making it home.
“Where’ll we hang this picture, the only one we have in seven years of dating where we’re both looking at the camera, eyes open, nice smiles, not looking like something that’s just been dragged through a bush backwards?”
“Yes I want to keep that oversized cardboard guitar I snuck out of the Irish bar in San Fran. We’ll find room for it somewhere. Sure isn’t it signed by yer man who was nearly the guitarist for The Strokes, we can’t throw it out.”
“Oh and make sure you leave room in the press for the smoothie maker I got for Christmas two years ago and have only used once, I’m definitely gonna start using it again once we’ve settled in.”
It’s also a big massive pain in the arse! I was happy where we were, I knew the whole setup. Rent was due the day after wages landed in my account – sweet. I knew the neighbours. OK they didn’t really speak any English and there were what seemed like 18 of them in a two-bed apartment, but at least I knew they weren’t crazies and they did give us a jug of milk that time we ran out so they must be sound.
And the recycling. Oh God, I’ll have to get used to a whole new recycling system. At least in the old place I knew that drinks cans could go with plastic bottles but food cans had to go in a separate bin. And paper always went in its own bin. What if it’s different in the new gaff? What if I end up inadvertently mixing dry recyclables and, well, not dry ones? Jeez, I could be making enemies of the bin men before I’ve even had a chance to mumble an awkward hello as I pass them in the morning – and they’re pretty menacing looking guys.
Then there’s parking. This new place only has on-street parking and, ashamed as I am to admit it, I never learned to parallel park. I’ll probably end up using a car park in town and getting a bus out to the apartment. Sod the expense, it’s easier than having a queue of angry drivers beeping at me as I try for the fifth time to reverse my little Corsa into a space the size of a village in Kerry.
OK my panic levels are beginning to get a little too high. Time to take a deep breath, lie down and maybe watch some telly to relax.
GODDAMMIT! This couch doesn’t have my groove in it and I haven’t a clue how to work this bloody remote.
Call the old landlord, tell him we’ve had a change of heart.
