With the impending house move, it has dawned on me that neither of the BUBs are going anywhere for weeks. For now it’s just five days a week, me and them, a house to pack up, swear words to be swallowed, fists to be bitten, tears to be dried and activities to find. But weirdly, I feel a little bit relieved.
What do Shreddies, boisterous dogs, hoodies, cheese, urine, removalists and oregano have in common? They all conspired to ruin my day.
This move is 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.
To me the notion that while we are planning and waiting for things to happen, things actually do happen, are happening, is just so beautifully expressed here. And like all good literature, it just makes me feel a lot better
With their litany of engorged bosoms, sexless rows and vomit-splattered shoulders, I envisaged it would be like root canal and a career in mining combined. But worse. But oddly, it isn’t.
The utter barefaced cheek of it. A letter through the door from a local estate agent suggesting that perhaps dirty dishes in the sink or piles of clutter are putting our potential buyers off? How VERY dare they.