By the sweat of our brows...and backs...and armpits...

In tribute to my niece's favourite TV show:

Moving Day, it's Moving Day;
Moving Day, it's Moving Day!
It's not Theorem-Proving Day!
Today's the day we move!

My life has been consigned once again to the confines of two suitcases...er, it has mostly been consigned to the confines of two suitcases. To be perfectly accurate, thanks to some much needed purchases, (wellies, pillows, and duvet complete with cover - thanks to Yvonne and IKEA) my stuff runneth over into an extra bag or two.

I'm quite pleased at the ease with which everything was stowed away once again. Thankfully, this time, the move isn't nearly so far (NW6 all the way to NW1) and once the boys have all of their things down in the Wimbledon Park house, I'll have Sebastian and the Street Van at my disposal. I love the autumn and attendant chill probably more than the next person, but I'm well glad to avoid the Shackleton-esque trek to and from the Tube with 100+ lbs. of my personal belongings clanging and clattering untidily behind.

So the morning has been spent in last-minute packing and van-stocking. Seb, Angus, and Rob have been running (and occasionally tripping/falling) up and down the stairs of the flat moving boxes of bedding, books, and other belongings from the over-crowded lounge into the van. At peak capacity last night, the living room was starting to resemble the Room of Requirement from Harry Potter: haphazard stacks and piles of books, electronics, and boxes vying for space on the floor and coffee tables, with a mustachio'd cardboard Angus (complete with Dracula cape) peering out from the only clear floor space by the window.


The flat's male contingent now absent to go sign the tenancy agreement and move their first van-load of stuff into the new terrace, I'm left all to my lonesome to reshuffle food between the refridgerators, make lunch (which I think with glee will consist of a sandwich and lovely oven chips...and a brownie!), and generally keep myself occupied. I'm certain that after some internship searching via the British Museum and V&A some well-earned Grey's Anatomy will be in order. Perish the thought that I'm resting on my laurels! Ne'er would I consider it...I'm simply conserving my strength to attempt to disassemble the bunk beds before the boys get back. Besides: I think I put in considerable hours when painting and cleaning the house with Sebastian last week.

The walls were in a right state once the huge composite posters had been de-blue tac'd from the wall. Lovely little oily marks all clustered in groups of four adorned the walls in the vacant space once occupied by ink-jet-printed, interwebs-furnished posters. We scrubbed: to little avail, all that happened was a layer of paint was shuffled around. And that only with a shoulder-wearying amount of elbow grease. We painted: to even less avail since the paint Seb chanced upon in the attic was a different shade from the dingy eggshell colour currently gracing the walls with its presence. We bandied about with Rob the idea of just painting the whole wall to cover up the hue discrepancies, but tossed the idea out upon remembering the paint-shuffling phenomenon afforded by intensive scrubbing. So back to work it was; armed with Poundland sponges, Shout, and warm soapy water, we removed most of the vestiges of our failed painting attempt and managed to generally conceal the oily blue tac remnants.

Then it was onwards to filling, sanding, and repainting a few dents and chips in the hallway wall and banister. For whatever it's worth, I have put in my vote that push pins become the order of the day for future wall hangings. Then, when move-out time comes, all that is required is a small plastic spatula and some tinted caulk to fill in the tiny holes and then: happy day, all is well.

I'd like to think that my next move will involve much less hassle. Particularly after the paperwork woes we've sifted through this week on top of any packing and coordinating that was required. Fingers are crossed that next time things will be much more leisurely.

Uncle Albert

All I can think of is the line from Paul McCartney's song with Wings: "We're so sorry Uncle Albert/we're so sorry, but we haven't done a thing all day". I feel a bit like that at the moment. After a lovely week off in the comfort of the Didcot/Hagbourne area I'm now back in London and struggling to feel as if I'm going to be productive. Thankfully, I have about three weeks before school starts where I can shake of the lethargy and desire to do nothing but tour historic sites, have huge family dinners, and try to navigate the ridiculously high wall of the tub when climbing out of the shower without causing undue injury. That last is still something I'm working on. Really, the problem is that the bath is just out to get me, taking advantage of my lack of familiarity with its narrowness and its highness in comparison with its American counterparts. The power shower is in on it as well. Twice this week, it's very disconcertingly turned itself on in the mornings. The shower doesn't approve of the lazy way in which I spend my mornings...I think this is its way of conveying displeasure.

Really though, hostile bathroom fixtures aside, I'm well pleased that the memory of my flight over is slowly fading. The four-leg journey was slightly horrendous - though at least it was broken up a bit. My first flight to Phoenix I was between two deceptively sweet old ladies...sort of like those to be found in Hot Fuzz, who offered to break my leg for me! I knew there was really a sinister purpose lurking behind those good-natured old-lady chuckles. Cosa Nostra anyone? Part two: Phoenix to Chicago. I was trapped between the window and a chatty middle-aged Russian couple. Not to mention being about 7 hours sleep-deprived at this point, with the rest of a 24-hour period to lose in sleep over the rest of the flights. O'Hare airport yeilded a very long line at Burger King (joy of joys) and then the chance to see the cruddiest International Flights terminal I'd ever had the misfortune to witness!

It was hilarious, really, because the rest of the airport was pretty nice and yet, the international terminal looked like the airport from a well-to-do branch of a third-world dictatorship. The sort left for the use of petty middle-rank bureaucrats. The moving walkways didn't move, there was no hot food past the security point, the carpet had last been replaced in 1972. These sorts of things are luxuries, Comrade, best to learn to do without. It's good for the soul.

However, the last leg, from Stockholm to Heathrow, was brilliant. I took a short nap, freshened up by washing my face and putting on makeup in the aeroplane's loo, and at the end of it all, got to be greeted by a very wonderful boyfriend and his very wonderful father. I confess, in spite of ease with which I settled into seeing right-hand driving after hours and hours of Top Gear viewing at home, I was still mildly unsettled by the Bishop's use of speed through the turns and on the B-roads. Still though, we made it back along the scenic route in decent time to be greeted warmly by Yvonne, Felicity, and the boys, and have a good dinner together. Got an equally lovely dinner with Tim and Rachel a few nights later in Reading, which was fabulous. Funny moment: Tim and Seb are very much intregued on the way out the door by the faulty fuse box. Rachel turned to me to say, "Apparently, this is what men do," to which I was oblidged to specify (much to our joint amusement) "This is what these men do!" Much as I love London, I'm already noticing a striking affinity for the East Hagbourne/Didcot/Reading area.