Oh yeah, I’ve been packing and unpacking for years, it’s all fine, I can pack in about five seconds flat and still have time to clean the flat and watch Life On Mars with a cuppa. Said I.
I don’t need a van, I’m only moving a few doors down, I’ll just carry everything up the street. Said I.
On Sunday morning, I’d carried my third box of junk up the road and nearly done my back in, my knee started doing this strange wobbly thing, and my arms had increased in length by three inches, meaning I can now do a really good impression of the orang utan in those Clint Eastwood movies.
I realised also at this point that
- I possess roughly five times as much junk as I thought I did. It’s all camoflaged when you live in a place, all of that stuff – hiding there underneath the bed or the wardrobe, in an evil huddle with the top from a deodorant can and a ball of mystery fluff
- I appear to have enough tumblers to cater for a wedding
- Most of my trousers don’t fit me unless I want to look like Jeremy Clarkson
- I don’t have any Allen keys, even though I swear a side effect of buying furniture from Ikea is enough accumulated Allen keys to melt down and build a 1:1 replica of the Forth Bridge.
I really should have been aware of the first one, it’s always the same.
Fortunately, I have been able to hire the services of an Australian with a van. Now where the hell did I put that Allen key?
What was that about an Australian?