We are moving house this week and it is no understatement when I tell you that my husband has singlehandedly organised everything to get us into this welcome position. He has expertly managed estate agents, builders, finances, solicitors, local council, landlords, window tradesmen, contracts, tenants, vendors, the John Lewis carpet department… and me.
While I am sitting here with Zachy catching up on last night’s Glee (‘GLEEEEEEEEE’ he says as he sways along to Bills, Bills, Bills), Panagiotis is unloading the loft. I’ll be embarrassed later when he asks what we are having for dinner and I’m going to have to present him with microwave chicken and veg from M&S… although I may actually say it’s from Sainsbury’s, as we’re supposed to be on a budget.
I haven’t just been sitting here idly twiddling with my widgets though. Tasked with upsizing our 2-bed furniture collection to a 4-bed one, I have been ordering sofa fabric swatches and measuring up for curtains, washing machines and American fridge freezers for the past few weeks. I’ll also be the one moving us on the day as Pan has to work. Luckily, I have called in reinforcements in the form of my sister, Angie, and my Dad (aka Grandad Smudge). I have moved house with Angie before (we have lived together 3 times, the last attempt in London being the most successful), and after propping up one half of a sofabed on my shoulders with the man-that-came-with-the-van propping up the other half, I turned back to see her breeze out of the Sydney apartment we were vacating, carrying a couple of towels. Fortunately, for our relationship, I’ve hired two men to do the heavy lifting this time!