We are not good at ‘life’ at the best of times.
At the worst of times, we’re frankly appalling.
And this reality is perhaps most evident when it comes to the business of moving house (lol, apartment, obviously).
We’d forgotten how bad we were. Much like childbirth, it seems that our minds erase the trauma and pain so eventually we do it again.
There’s the 104 car trips, where you can hear god knows what breaking in the back seat. And the part where you have to relocate your f*cking forks and pots and pans and bowls and I still have absolutely no idea HOW YOU ARE BEST MEANT TO DO THAT. And the part where you try to manoeuvre a coffee table downstairs and there’s three other people in the lift and you a little bit hit them and you’re so sorry but mostly exhausted.
What happened this weekend was the worst experience of either of our lives 0/10 would not recommend.
Here is our diary…
Thursday night: Some boxes are filled with things, but realistically, we are not at all ready to move tomorrow. “Can’t really do much ’til the last minute,” we say to each other while eating snacks and watching The Bachelor finale.
6am – Our alarm goes off. It’s very funny because would never get up at 6am, for anything. We guiltlessly continue to sleep and dream about a day where we’re not moving.
8.15am – We slept through about 14 alarms. We’re stressed, but have a surprising lack of regret. We discuss how important it is to do a number of important jobs before the removalists get here. Number one on the agenda is to remove whatever is living in the fridge. It smells and no one will admit to putting it there. We both discuss perhaps… leaving the fridge and making it someone else’s problem.