Things that make it hard to write

1. Moving:

I don’t know if I was ever aware of what a control freak I am until the time came for THE MOVE. Into a real house. It’s probably why I like writing so much, I am the god over an entire realm of my own devising.

They say moving is almost as stressful as losing a family member. Before, I always thought that was for other less organised mortals. My move, however, would be engineered with military precision. I would whip out my spreadsheets, make my confirmations. Nothing would be left to chance.

Yep.

Two days prior to the move, I get a phone call saying that there has been a mix up. My new mattress will not be delivered for another week. Ah well! I say,  tossing my head back with a devil may care attitude. I’ll use an air mattress! It’ll be an adventure, like indoor camping!

Day before the move. We get the house, officially. I pick up the keys and scuttle over to check put my new place. The realestate agent has given us a bottle of wine, I pop it in the fridge which I somehow manage to figure out how to turn on. Then I let myself run around exploring. Exposed brick! Polished concrete! I run my fingers over my gleaming Miele appliances and … the door falls off the dishwasher. It’s getting kind of hot in here. I’d turn on my air conditioning but the owner still has the remotes. He can drop them off, next week, after the 33 degree weekend.
Day of move: movers show up! At last everything’s coming up Milhouse! It is hot and not ideal weather for loading our hundreds of bags and boxes. I begin to see the appeal in becoming a nun and being stripped of all my worldly possessions. Four hours later, it’s done. I am covered in grime and sweat. Time for a quick shower, but lucky me! They never installed the gas like they were supposed to. Cold shower it is! I suppose I’ll sit and watch a movie but turn out optus forgot to send the technician we booked. Lucky their hold music is so jazzy, I can just dance to it. For the hour and a half I am on hold waiting to speak to someone.

 
Finally, the day is over. I am hot and thirsty. I’d have some water but all our glasses are in a box located somewhere in this carboard fortress I am surrounded by. Then I remember I do have one thing in the fridge. Wine. And I decide, looking at the chaos around me and letting it all go, that it’s going to taste like victory.

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