Last weekend, I moved house.
As followers of my Twitter feed may well have realised, I wasn’t particularly keen on having to do this. Again. You see, this was my fifth move in eighteen months – and came at a time where we really didn’t need anything more to deal with.
Oky, so I don’t like moving. But I don’t think anyone likes moving. The weird, creeping feeling when you know you have to leave a place soon, that in a few weeks you’ll have to get used to somewhere different, that the walls around you won’t be these ones any more. I remember being at school on the day we moved out of my childhood home, and suddenly realised that I wasn’t going back there. That was my home, but I couldn’t go there any more.
Emotional attachment aside, there’s the stress, time and frankly absurd amounts of money involved in finding a new flat to rent. (Seriously, letting agents, what do you do?). The excitement of turning up at a flat viewing, wondering if it’s too spontaneous to just get the first one you see, if it’s perfect… followed by disappointment the other side of the threshold. Or worse, the landlord changing their mind, and their terms, half an hour after you call to say yespleasewe’lltakeit, and your momentary relaxation about having a home again vanishes (something we went through a couple of weeks ago).
Packing. Packing up all of your stuff. Everything boxed up. I have no idea how stressful moving an entire house must be.
Then unpacking, finding new places for things, things that had places in your old home but that you can’t work out where to put now. Getting in a huff when you can’t work out where things ought to go, and wishing your mum was there because she’d know, and that you can’t reach the new kitchen cupboards.
My home-love may not seem to make sense, considering how much I long for the day I can run off round the world and live out of a backpack again… but then I’ll come back. Your home is the continuous, the place you come home to. I don’t think anyone likes that changing.
And especially not when everything else that you’d banked on,everything else that was continuous, reaching from your past to, you think, your future… is up in the air too. Or have also been put away in boxes. Which you don’t know when you’re going to open again.
You see, we had a bit of an unsettling summer, without the literal unsettlement. Things we’ve kind of banked on for the future might not happen now, or might not happen when we thought they would. We’ve had to get used to a lot of New Plans. Which is fine, because it isn’t change that I dislike. It’s not knowing. It’s unsettlement.
This New Plan we now find ourselves on might be brilliant. We might get to do all the things we thought we would and hope we would, just not the way we thought. Or, we might get something else instead. Which could be crap, or could be even better.
Like the new flat. All last week I was stressing, thinking, was it actually a double bed? Was it actually tiny? What if we don’t have *any* wardrobes? But we got here, and it’s actually nicer than we remember from the (15 minute, stressy and rude letting agent) viewing.
The sofa is sooo comfy, even if I do worry with every creak as I turn over that the bed’s going to break. The drawers on Rob’s chest don’t stay closed, but all his clothes fit in it, so we don’t need to buy a wardrobe. We don’t have a TV til the weekend, but we get to watch Harry Potter and John Bishop all evening, and have been cream crackered anyway.
I never said I don’t like moving. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it again until at least next year.
Sorry my posts are all so flippin’ emo. It’s just been that kind of summer!