So back in the day when I was deluded, I remember saying how much I loved moving house.
*note to self- taking a gun and shooting yourself in the foot would be less painful*
In our old little two bed terrace I could never of imagined how much crap I had secretly stored away in any available space. I am going to write to the government requesting that when you give birth, babies should exit the womb with a warning sign stating how much stuff you WILL waste your money on and become inexcusably attached too.
Week 1- The renovation
The new house that we have now moved into could only be described as a runaway fugitive from a pre-war museum. This house was committing crimes as quickly as Lindsey Lohan necks a bottle of vodka and gets behind a wheel. Floral carpets, walls, curtains and ceilings were only the start. All in a array of colours from the rainbow. We had one week to turn this migraine into a home. Cue two large pots of Magnolia and enough gloss to keep you on cloud nine for the next several years. By the end of the week muscles were hurting I previously did not know existed.
Week 2- The move. Thankfully Isabelle was taken care of and only being at the grand age of 20 months had more sense than me to retreat to grandmas. Woofs had also escaped to a boarding kennels. Leaving me and Ste to fight it out alone. All was well in the morning until the sofa arrived. Cue stress. Our average size sofa was no match for the mouse size living room door. So obviously in this situation you bring your dad in who has never been famous for anything other than driving huge trucks and creating ludicrous plans. By no means was he trained to remove our 9ft window embedded in antique frame. Me on the other hand chose to hibernate in the upstairs bathroom with taps on full power. 30 minutes In I dragged my sorry numb backside to view the damage but when you see four grown men grinning like Cheshire cats that lost a pint of cream but got rewarded with two pints of beer, panic automatically sets in. The only words muttered from them was "run". Thanks of the reassurance guys!! On entering the living room the sofa was in and so was the window. Hmmmmmm. Behind me I heard an intake of breaths and someone squeaked "have you seen it". Seen what? At this point I spotted IT, the crack right through the centre on the window pane. While a few strong words were muttered, I realised it could be worse. My sofa was in, my window was in, now with a touch of Art Deco.
The afternoon continued to decline from here. Finally finishing the day around 3am when not even the dirtiest Kebab shop is open. Stale bread and a tin of beans was the only thing either of us had the energy to prepare.
It is now three weeks later I swear I'm still unpacking crap. Where does it come from? Where do you hide it? Any suggestions please leave below. Getting rid is for some reason, unspeakable.
Till my next rant, Farewell
Miss Savvy- Mum