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12 Jan 2015

Current State Of The Nation

millions of boxes.. boxes for me...

I am from a broken home.

No, that's not right.  My home is broken.  Nope.  My hope is broken.  Nope, not that either.  So why the long silence?  Bless me father, it has been one month since my last blog post...

For the purposes of this post, please do assume that you're going to come across some swear words.  And feel free to read "stuff" as "schtuffff", as I have been pronouncing it in my head the entire way through.


The seemingly never-ending saga goes like this:  plans are afoot to move.  Plans were afoot for Many Years as although current Dream Home is All You Ever Wished For, your wishes sure as sh*t didn't involve The Neighbours From Hell.

So, as soon as you're remotely In The Position to move, you instigate proceedings.  You burn shoe-leather and lots of diesel looking for your New And Improved Dream Home (somewhere in a galaxy far far away from where you really want to buy but can never afford).  You find The One.  You negotiate.  You go Sale Agreed.  You have all the boxes ticked, but are just waiting for the tiny little last piece of the puzzle: that holy grail called the Mortgage Offer Letter from your financial institution of choice (heretofore called Crowd Of W*nkers).  Instead, you're frazzled with fulfilling the never-ending river-deep, mountain high, volume of paperwork that Crowd of W*nkers wants.  And although CoW promised enough cash to kick-start funding your own private space station, you surprisingly discover, when it comes to putting their money literally where their mouth is, they'll offer you an insultingly smaller amount.  Three Figure Percentages Less.  If that's possible, in a Parallel Maths Dimension.  And your New And Improved Dream House, the one you could more than afford, more than twice over, from a mortgage or a repayment perspective, is now No Longer On The Cards.  Despite the fact that you've never missed a mortgage payment, and have been in positive cashflow throughout the recession, haven't reneged on a tax payment, ever, and even though stressing the mortgage repayments causes no hassles - just because you're self-employed and you don't tick a box.  <Insert appropriate sound of Extreme Annoyance of choice>

In parallel, because CoW swears blind to you that it's All In The Bag, you have Nothing To Worry About, you've moved out of the Abode Formally Known As Dream Home and now more varyingly called, That Place Where We Used To Live (while throwing salt over left shoulder and blessing oneself rapidly), or The Pension Plan (with fingers and eyes crossed breath hitched).

The actual move itself involves multiple stages, as anyone who has "moved home" as opposed to "moved apartment at end of tenancy" knows.  Not that the latter isn't painful as arse enough.  Moving isn't fun.  Especially if you have an attic.  People, for the love of Your God of Choice, never, ever get an attic.  Just throw the damn stuff out if you're no longer using it.

Stage One involves buying boxes.  A lot of boxes.  Far from buying Moving Boxes we were all reared in this country.  Get your ass off down to the local supermarkets and grab all of the boxes you can carry from behind the tills. Lather rinse repeat. Now, thanks to the modern wonder that is Recycling, that option is no more, and the only way to effect a move of "stuff" is to buy boxes.  Explain to me please, someone, how introducing more boxes into the world is environmentally friendly.  Please.  Am still scratching my head.

So then comes the Filling Of The Boxes.  Of course, this has to be done in such a way as to categorically guarantee, because it's being done piecemeal, in between a middle of very stressful and time-consuming Other Things, and in keeping with When You Can Take a Day Off To Rent A Van (and you're buggered if you're going to pay the two days' rental on it), that you'll never, ever, be able to figure where everything is.  Definitely, whatever you do, don't buy a big marker and write even a vague guideline as to the contents on any of the sides of the identical boxes.  Nope.  Leave 'em all pristinely and wonderfully blank, so you can have All The Craic In The World later trying to find various and specific bits of "stuff".  "Stuff" that was randomly put into The Nearest Empty or Nearly Empty Box in the first instance.  It doesn't matter, says you, this is only for a few weeks sure.

All of these Activities Involving Boxes is going on in parallel with the Rest Of the Housey Stuff, which you figure is low risk for not completing at the same time as your planned Big Move Out, as you've been guaranteed, sure, by CoW.  Guaranteed.  And you're a brilliant project manager so you are.  You eat risk like this for breakfast.  So you beg, borrow, and steal space, before Christmas (when people for some reason like to have their space, well, spacey), to store the aforementioned "stuff".  Because The Buying Of The Boxes burned through the budget you had set aside for the Storage of The Boxes.  Promising them all (the people, not the boxes, although I did start talking to them once when I was really tired (the boxes, not the people) faithfully that it'll only be a few weeks, and then you'll have them over to yours for Christmas Drinks to say thanks for the free "stuff" space (and to show off New Dream Home).  Because that's what you were being promised by CoW after all.

And then CoW drops the clanger, and you suddenly realise that you're actually, genuinely homeless.  And there but for the grace of so many kind people (all sarcasm and sardonic intent set aside), you and the "stuff" would have Nowhere To Go.  Instead, you are in the process of finding The Next New And Improved Ah-Sure-It'll-do Who-Needs-To-Dream-Anyhow House.  Just so you can move in, and move the "stuff" in, sometime before you drive everyone demented, and they you.

Yes, I am moving house, and just over Christmas, the sale fell through - I am living out of boxes and bags and B&Bs and hotels and the genuine kindnesses of friends and family, and thank goodness we have a (previously considered by several smirky disdainful people we know) Stupidly Large Car, as it functions as our current Dream Home.  A drive-along-with-us wardrobe and transportation device all-in-one.  The glove compartment is our stationery cupboard with stamps and pens and envelopes (mental note: have run out of envelopes - and  I'm not beyond putting a post-it on the glove to this effect).  Behind the passenger's seat, you'll find a box featuring hand-washing powder, Keep It Whites (so we can do one wash with colours and whites all together, when we land somewhere long enough to borrow a washing machine) and industrial sized shampoo and conditioner (I've given up with the small pretty ones that fit into my occasional/weekend toiletries case - this is going on for longer than one effing weekend).  Behind the driver's seat is the box of picnic cutlery, plates, etc (aka our dinner service).  The back seat holds some throws and pillow cases in case we're really unlucky (thankfully not yet!)  The boot holds the stupidly heavy suitcase with This Weeks' Clothes, toiletries, electrics and whatnot.  It's genuinely, awesomely amazing, how little you can get by with (or without!) for months now at a go.  It is actually an exercise in wondering What The Hell is In All Those Damn "stuff" Boxes Anyhow.

On the other hand, on the downside, "things" are going missing between places.  Mails (of the snail variety).  Everything is falling behind - emails, blogs, bills, you name it.  Because of the necessity to Live More Simply And With Significantly Less "stuff", I just am not trucking makeup and skincare with me to trial;  only the hardcore tried-and-tested stuff travels with me.  So that leaves me with potentially only previews to post, and it's hard to find time to do that, with my current here-one-night-there-another lifestyle.  I'm not whinging, actually.  Truth be told, I'm half-loving the freedom of this venture.  I know I can't do it forever, I will eventually go insane.  I have started the process of The Next Dream Place already so fingers crossed it'll all work out and I'll be back with some regular posts, but it's going to take a few months more, given standard conveyancing durations in Ireland.

Anyhow - this is probably all TMI, but I wanted to update regular readers and those lovely PR reps with whom I've worked long and hard to build up relationships:  I will try to get back into blog posts as soon as I can but continue to bear with me.  And although Thanksgiving has come and gone, I wanted to give thanks - to all those lovely people putting us up, and putting up with us, and to tell you - sorry, but you'll have to bear the annoyances for another couple of months yet :-)

Bear with me, bear with me, bear with me.  I have been blogging for a few years now and I'd hate to think that because I'm "geographically displaced" for a while, that all my work goes down the tubes... Catherine (MontyC) and Emer (TheArtyMama) will continue.  I'll post if/where I can.  That's it for now... Oh and Happy New Year to all...

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