So we’re moving again. This is around the 30th time I’ve moved in my life and at 39 years old I’m beginning to wonder – is it me?
Our house is now beginning to get packed up, there are plastic boxes emerging from sheds and four bin bags labeled “Bedroom junk” to be sorted. You know, perfume bottle lids, a bag of cotton wool balls, encrusted nail varnish bottles, a battery, a snot sucker, fourteen tubes of toothpaste (they’re always 3 for 2 aren’t they?), random receipts, long lost tweezers, hair brushes, empty hair serum bottle, loose change and so on.
The first time I moved from a flat in London to another flat in London I emerged from the rubble bearing 15 big black bin bags of rubbish. I was astounded, but have since learned that this is normal. And it doesn’t get less the more you move. So we’re in a bit of a mess as I sift through things, skimming off the things I use (10 percent) and chucking the rest away.
We probably won’t move for another couple of months at least, and so having had a bit of an initial, excited sort out, we’re resigned to living in a bit of a mess until we do move. There is something about the teetering pile of bin bags and boxes around the place that I love. It’s frustrating when you can’t find anything you need, but it also gives me the sort of thrill I got when the boiler broke at school or there was a power cut – something dramatic that meant normal life was suspended for a short time. It’s not living on the edge, it’s being a slob who likes an excuse to dress badly and skip the skincare routine.
I used to move furniture around in my bedroom from about nine or ten years old. I wouldn’t tell my parents or ask for their help, I’d just shift a wardrobe to the other side of the room, hoist the bed round, shove a chest of drawers over and voilà, a new bedroom. I’d walk in and out of the room, enjoying the sensation of a new vista. I’d do this a lot.
So, I think it’s me.
This move is different though, different from the many, many that have gone before. There is no serious pest infestation at my current address or noisy-aggressive-neighbours-who-are-friends-with-Mike-Tyson or a landlord selling the roof from above my head. No one is putting super glue in my lock. We just want to live closer to family so we can see more of them and lean on them for a little support with the kids. Fortunately, the house in question needs a bit of work so they’ll be plenty of shifting and new vistas to keep me happy for a while.