Monday, 24 November 2008

Don't Stop Movin'...

I’ve always found moving to be a completely hideous process. A thoroughly vile, exhausting affair that seems never ending. It makes me want to sit in a darkened room, in a pool of my own piss whilst I smack my head against the wall. Truly, it does. I could openly weep at my desk just thinking about it...

I’m currently filling up bin bags with all manner of random crap that I’ve inexplicably hoarded over the years. I’m sure some of it seemed sentimental at the time, but as hard as I try, I can’t understand why I have kept a Christmas card that I received eleven years ago that simply says, ‘Have a good 'un fatty! From Sandy.’ I don’t know anyone called Sandy – and I never have. And this Sandy person couldn’t even be bothered to write, ‘To Johnny Red Pants,’ or sign it with love – it’s Chrimbo! - so Lord Madge only knows why I elected to keep this, especially as being referred to as Fatty has never been know to fill me with festive cheer. Maybe I kept it to spur me on for one of my many doomed New Years health kicks that surrenders to the cake at about 4.16pm on New Years Day. Some things aren't meant to be, y'know...

I’m also at a loss as to why I’ve retained a commemorative porcelain thimble pertaining to the delights of Southend on Sea – a place that I never been, nor plan on going anytime soon. Obviously someone gave it to me, and if that person ever reads this, I’m sorry I’m no longer keeping it. If you want it back you can try the charity shop on Bushey Village High Street – if they’ll take it that is. I’ve cheerfully donated so much unsellable old tat over the last seventeen home transfers that I’m on my last warning. When you consider the fact that I retained old Christmas cards and pottery thimbles, you can just IMAGINE how bad the shit that got thrown out must have been. It's therefore no shock that the women who run the charity place shudder as I heave myself and my latest sack of crap through the door. Some people are just plain ungrateful.

Apparently, moving home is the second most stressful thing you can ever engage in (bettered only in the doom stakes by being strapped to a chair and force fed pork pie whilst Mariah Carey is played on a loop and a rabid dog craps on your foot.) In the last ten years, I’ve gone through this palava a total of... seventeen times. Effing nora. And all being well, in a week’s time, this number will rise a notch as I inhabit my eighteenth residence in a decade… Phew… That said, I can’t wait. I have a really nice feeling in my special place when I think about it.

You see, me and my lovely adorable blokey are shacking up. Oh yes we are. I can’t wait, I really, really can’t… And I’m confident that the move will go swimmingly because let’s face it, after the stress of selecting a snug love shack des res type place, it can’t be more so…

They say opposites attract and such a cliché was wholeheartedly endorsed when we first attempted to find somewhere. You see, Mr Blokey likes traditional, whilst Mr Me prefers modern, clean lines. Matters haven't been helped by estate agents who mistake the word ‘rustic’ for ‘utter piss-hole’ and ‘character’ for ‘needed condemning twenty years ago.’ ‘Quirky’ was loosely translated as ‘will make you bite your cheeks until you bleed as you don’t want to laugh in the estate agents face.’ Their idea of what ‘spacious’ constituted was questionable in the extreme and how one of them got away with championing a view of a burnt out car with a straight face, I’ll never know. It seemed endless. What Mr Blokey loved, I didn’t connect with and what I liked, he found soulless. The days were long and tiring and by the end of it, I honestly thought we’d end up in a camper van – until I found out that Mr. Blokey hated them.

And then – a breakthrough! We were shown a bungalow that we both liked. Much excite to the point of acute bum sweats ensued. In our madness related elation, we paid a deposit to secure the place… And then at the eleventh hour, it fell through. Dry bums and long faces all round became the order of the day. We sulked. We sulked a bit more. We opened a bottle of wine and then we got over it and laughe. Eventually, we went back to the proverbial chalk board. It only took one more attempt until we exclaimed bingo (or as they say in Scotland, BANG-OOR) and got all moist around the unmentionables. When we first pulled up outside the flat, I wasn’t expecting a great deal. The money they wanted for it was more than reasonable which made the cynic in me expect it to be on the lesser side of shabby or inhabited by someone who reminded me of Fred West… But it wasn’t. It was lovely. I finally realised that the celebrity estate agents were correct after all – that you make your mind up about a place within 10 seconds of stepping foot in the door. I loved the lady who owned it, the little nooks and crannies that the place offered and the garden at the back. But more than that, the place gave me a good vibe and Mr Blokey rather fabulously thought so too. As we left after seeing it for a second time (and agreeing everything in principle), cheesy grins were plastered back on our faces and the bum sweats were back.

Hoooray!

1 comment:

Dominique said...

You have been to Saaaaaffffend on Sea my sweet, but I didn't buy you a manky thimble :O) x

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