Six weeks isn’t a long time to make the decision to move house after forty-five years.
When I say ‘make the decision to move’ what I really mean is, to actually move.
It was all mother’s fault. Had I not taken her to have her dog groomed we wouldn’t have seen the new build on our way home.
“Oh it’s so lovely,” says mother, peeking through the windows.
“Yes it is, but you’ve always said your next move would be in a wooden box, for which you have a fully paid up insurance policy.”
And so it was, mother was going to move. Just the box material being lower quality.
I am indebted to my husband for his fetish for strong supermarket shopping bags.
At the last count we owned 27 of them.
They have been a godsend for carting 45 years’ worth of stuff someone might find useful to various charity shops.
I am also grateful that he did the carting and hopeful he might think twice before buying any more bags.
Cardboard boxes were scavenged from a variety of sources, filled with stuff, and sealed.
Neat little white stickers were placed on top of each box and mother wrote which room said box should be placed in. Unfortunately, no-one could read her writing so it was pot luck which box ended up where.
The checklist of things to be done, as any of you who have moved house will know, is long and frightening.
Even more so when it has been written on a number of separate pieces of paper held at different addresses by a number of people.
Despite this, we seem to have covered all bases.
Top of the list was telephone and broadband. Life for my elderly mother could not continue without internet access, apparently.
I am glad to say moving day came and went without too much issue. The rain only started as the last of her possessions were being loaded into the van.
However, it tipped it down while we unloaded at the other end.
I drove mother back to collect her dog and clean the old house. Someone had very helpfully switched the fridge off.
As we paddled our way over the kitchen floor I realised the only thing left to mop up the flood with was a small, thin sponge.
That evening was ‘let’s try the village Chinese takeaway’ night.
My sister found the leaflet that had been put through the door and ordered; 20 minutes later I went to fetch the dinner.
“No we haven’t got that order,” stated the bemused assistant.
A quick phone call to sister revealed she’d ordered the Chinese meal from a venue five miles away.
We managed to find it in the end. I suppose it gave us weary ones something to laugh about.
The checklist has become much smaller; just need to get the right takeaway leaflet and new glasses for the sister.