All is well

I did not get around to posting yesterday, not because I was in despair, but because I am frantically busy.

We got the keys for the new house yesterday morning, and I spent most of the afternoon sorting out boxes of things.

And the evening.

And this morning.

The removal men are coming to start packing today.  They do a damn good job, and will pack everything, but there are some things that I prefer to do myself, and some stuff that has to be carted to granny’s house, where we are temporarily holing up until we are sorted (thank you granny), and there will be many runs to the tip, and the charity shop.

Most of this I could have done earlier, but I have been rather much in the slough of despond, and have preferred to sit about on my bottom, whinging.

Hence the pace at which I am now working.

Still, it is all getting done, and I feel happier that this move is now actually a reality.

I know I should have felt that weeks ago, but that old saying; ‘There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip,’ has been haunting my dreams, and we have almost left this house so many times, I did not like to take anything for granted.

Good things:

• We took the children to the new house yesterday evening when Jason got in from work.  They love it.
• I have explained to the house agent about the funeral on Monday, and the fact that I really don’t want to spend Monday morning having a stand up, knock down fight with the landlady beforehand.  She was suitably sympathetic.

We have arranged that our check out and inventory inspection will now take place on Saturday afternoon.

We are not telling the landlady.

She can turn up and do her own inspection with the agent on Monday, by which time we will be gone, gone, gone.

This works for me, and has taken some of the crushing weight off my shoulders.

It means I’m going to have to work like a slave to get the house presentable in time for the inspection, but I personally think it is worth it.

In slightly less good news, Jason is driving me crazy.

He is, yet again, up to his eyes in it at work.  He knew things would be hectic last week, but apparently things are even more hectic this week, which came as a bit of a shock.  He hasn’t got home before seven thirty for the last two days.  Tonight he might be later, he tells me.

He has Thursday, Friday and Monday off, to help with the move, so he is trying to deal with the unexpected surge in workload, and the fact that he was already trying to fit six days work into three.  It is not easy.

I sympathise with him.

However, he is now in uber project manager mode, and I am falling under his steely gaze.

He is worried that I will not manage the house today, with the removal men and all the things that need doing.

He is afraid that he will come home to find me lounging about eating doughnuts while the removal men have nicked off with half the landlady’s furniture and the turret.

He has fired questions at me as to how I will go about my day, and what I will do, when, and how I am not allowed to even take time off for a widdle in case something goes horribly wrong and I am not in control of it all.

I am finding it rather exhausting.

And, if I am honest, a tad insulting.

I know he does not mean to do it, and that he is actually worried, and being kind, and helpful etc, etc.  I do love him dearly, and in my rational mind I am thinking ‘ahhh! Poor man,’ and ‘Ohhh, how sweet!’

My irrational mind is going:

‘For fuck’s sake. I am 39 years old, and for the thirty odd years before I knew you I managed to move house several times, have two children, hold down numerous jobs and get dressed most mornings without putting on all my clothes inside out, and manage a husband who spent most of his time behaving like a giant ,spoiled child.’ (I say most days.  We will gloss over the early months of child rearing).

But now is not the time.

Now is the time to stare at strange lumpy things in the freezer and think about whether I want to transport them across the county or whether I want to take them to the toxic waste barrel bit of the tip.

And make sure that they haven’t packed all my clean knickers.

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