It’s true. Moving season is yet again upon me. I am not looking forward to moving out of London where I’m currently keeping a decent number of friends, but commuting to and from Bristol was a bit much, even for me who loathes change so much that I was actually considering it. But the price of an annual season ticket – a mere £16,000 – coupled with London rents, the fact that the Tube and trains often break down and freak out at a moment’s notice have convinced me that, for now, it’s time to up sticks and head out to the West Country.
I went round to see my friends who are going to move me last night – well, my girlfriend isn’t really moving me so much as helping me provide helpful and less than helpful instructions to her boyfriend who will be doing the heavy-lifting and driving – and in a strange turn of events, they offered me more stuff.
In fairness, they probably would’ve taken some of my stuff off my hands, and seeing as how they’ve just moved into a three bedroom flat (in Zone 4, calm down, they’re not millionaires) where I have my own room (literally, I was introduced to it as Dr Gill’s room) I could’ve probably told them I was leaving a box of my personal effects there for when I come and stay – which we’ve all decided will probably be twice a month.
Because I really do hate packing. This is what The Mom fails to understand. I leave things hither and yon, in all the places where I have my Once A Year (or maybe Twice A Year) friends so that I don’t have to pack when I go and see them. I just turn up with my usual bag full of my usual things (laptop, passport, notebook) and hope I’ve had the good sense to have left behind a toothbrush and spare pair of underpants. Though, in fairness, my friends are a good-natured sharing lot and so even if I hadn’t thought to leave such useful things behind, I’m sure I could borrow something. I mean, I went to my friend’s yoga class once where her husband was hosting a jumble sale out front and left with a new toothbrush, so I don’t think it’s unreasonable to think there might be others to hand. This is my plan, you see, and it’s rather clever: I don’t like packing. Ever. Under any circumstances. So if I do less packing when I’m about to move house, that means less packing in the future! It’s a genius plan, and I can’t believe The Mom doesn’t see this.
I expect the move to be a fairly straightforward one. I try very hard not to buy anything that I can’t jettison if needs be – I mean, I am on a visa here in the UK and if David Cameron, Teresa May or HM The Queen decides they don’t like the cut of my jib, I have twelve days in which to leave the country. So if I can’t reasonably post it to myself back in Canada, I tend not to buy it, which makes moving house way easier.
I have, this time, six boxes (medium-sized ones) and four big laundry/shopping bags which are quite large. That’s it. Oh, and of course my canary case and a bag of laptops.
And because I’m moving to Bristol which is sort of interesting, my London friends are planning to visit frequently. So, they’ve decided they’ll donate/give/leave some of their stuff with me too. I’ll be taking possession of an air mattress, extra bedding and pillows. So we can all basically turn up at one another’s house, let ourselves in (keys will be given out all round) and just carry on as usual. I fully expect them to turn up at my new flat, unannounced, settle in and send me a text telling me to hurry up because dinner’s ready to be served. In return, I’ll turn up unannounced at theirs and when they get up in the morning, I’m fairly sure I’ll have baked them a cake.
So it’s not so much moving house as it is expanding. We’re taking a country house you see, and I’ll be in charge of it for the most part.