I (don’t) like to move-it-move-it

NEVER again. Ever. I don’t care if we win Buckingham Palace in a bet next week, I’m not going through that shit again.

First off — the movers. They turned up four hours late, assured us that emptying the flat would take three hours, then promptly took five hours to do it. We even ended up having to help them carry stuff to the car. Now I’d imagine that not all one-bedroom apartments have 75 boxes of books in them, but still — five hours?

Luckily the move went without a hitch. Nah, I’m joking, it was a total pain in the arse. The movers left for our house without telling us so we had to race to catch them up (before Jamie — who was following me — says anything, I admit to getting lost twice on the way there). By the time I got there at 10pm Ev was already helping carry crap out of the truck as they’d told her it would take three hours to unload it all. With our help everything was in the house by midnight. Exhausted, we went to bed (this bit didn’t involve Jamie), got up on Sunday in a house with no lights and no power sockets to discover…

AWESOME! So that’s a $1400 telly down the drain. The moving company’s insurance covers up to 60 cents per pound, so if my maths is right (which, with four consecutive Ds in GCSE maths, I doubt) we should get about $100 in compensation. Since then we’ve discovered the microwave’s got a huge dent in it, two shelves in the fridge have come away from the side and they even managed to knacker Ev’s shredder bin. Christ.

Second — unpacking. No, I don’t want to do it. Can’t we just live out of boxes for the next twenty years or so? Sorting through bags of clothes was bad enough and we still have about 80 boxes to go. Aaarrrgghhh. But, as me and Ev keep telling each other, we have a house. Awesome.