There’s nothing like moving house to remind me that I have the upper body strength of a toddler and I’m insanely unfit. 

Brace yourself. This is a long one. 

The Bloke and I moved house at the beginning of January. It’s been a long time (I think about eight years!) since our last move and not one that we had planned on – our landlord suddenly suggested late last year that he was thinking of selling the house, leaving us in the precarious position of potentially being given notice and needing to find somewhere new in a very short amount of time, in an area that is very much in demand. We decided to take ownership of the situation and found somewhere ourselves, and struck lucky with a beautiful property not far away. 

It was an odd feeling when we initially started packing. The house we were leaving had seen the highest of highs, the lowest of lows and the biggest changes in our lives. During our stay there, we got engaged and married, I quit my teaching job and started a whole new adventure into freelancing, and The Bloke got a new job. We’ve been lucky enough to experience amazing things – a honeymoon in New York, a trip to Barcelona, several trips to the east coast of Scotland, countless long weekends in London, hundreds of theatre shows and lots of restaurant and bar openings. Our family dynamics have changed with the birth of my niece, and we have dealt with the painful loss of The Bloke’s mother, auntie and uncle and all three cats. We’ve made new friends, some of whom have become more like family, and lost contact with others. We experienced a global pandemic, saw the passing of The Queen and the coronation of a new King. We ticked off major bucket list items, and planned for the future.

And yet, it never really felt like home. We found the house when we were forced to move quickly from our previous property after only six months because the charlatan landlady decided to sell, and this was the best available at short notice. While it wasn’t the original plan, we ended up staying for a long time because it was cheap and remained so as rent skyrocketed in other properties around us. However, right from the beginning the landlord made it clear that he didn’t care about the place as long as he received his rent and in our entire tenancy made just a single repair (and only when he was forced to) when the kitchen roof caved in. Even then, despite the fact he could see that there was dirty water and crap running in from outside, it took him three months to get builders out, and only after I lost my temper. In retaliation, he put the rent up. 

I’ve never been materialistic, but the furnishings and appliances were already very old and worn when we originally moved in, the decor was awful and there were a million things that needed fixing that have never been done. It has always felt like a catch 22 situation – we could have redecorated (a suggestion that has been made by the lazy landlord on several occasions), we could have bought new curtains, rugs, plants etc. But – perhaps far too stubbornly for my own good – I’ve always refused to, not wanting to waste time and money on a property that 1. We don’t own and 2. Would only be creating a profit for a landlord that can’t be bothered. 

And so over the years we have got into a routine – the landlord turned up once a year to do a gas check (which we have never received a copy of), he would make lots of promises of things we all knew he was never going to do, we would nod, smile and then say goodbye with the unspoken understanding that we wouldn’t hear from him again for another twelve months. 

This has made it all too easy to fall into a rut. The last few years in particular following the pandemic, the insane increases in house prices and the cost of living crisis has left us becoming complacent. I’ve discussed this before, but a lot of it has felt like merely an existence, even with all the fantastic things that we have had the opportunity to experience. 

To cope, we have soothed ourselves and each other with stuff.

Lots and lots of stuff.

Stuff that we didn’t want or need.

Stuff that has taken up space and at times has made us feel like the walls are closing in.

Unfortunately, this stuff suddenly had to be organised, packed or thrown away, and the enormity of the task ahead of us was completely overwhelming. Even when we stopped packing and tried to relax, The Bloke was so anxious that I could practically feel it radiating from him. 

I booked the movers for 9.30am on the Friday morning, but my head was filled with so many worries that I was awake from about 3.00am. I was worried whether they would turn up on time. Both the roads of the houses we were moving from and to are notoriously difficult for parking, so I was worried that they wouldn’t be able to find a space to fit the van. Even though the weather report predicted that it would be dry, I was worried that it would suddenly start raining. 

This may sound ridiculous, but in times of crisis I ask my Granddad for help. He passed away in 1997, and since then I have taken great comfort in the notion that he is watching over our family. So at 3.30am, as I sat in the living room surrounded by boxes and shelving units, I asked him for help. 

And you know what? The day couldn’t have gone any better. 

At 4.00am an enormous parking space appeared outside our house and we were able to run out with cones to stop anyone else parking there. The weather remained dry. The movers turned up exactly on time, they were extremely professional, funny and friendly and, above all, they were absolute MACHINES – clearing all our stuff in less than an hour. When we drove up to the new house, there was an enormous parking space right outside, and the house was filled in extra – quick time. After feeling weighed down by the enormity of everything, they were EXACTLY what we needed. 

Thank you, Granddad. 

And that was WITHOUT furniture. We have moved into an unfurnished house, and when I mentioned this in a previous blog post I received several messages from local friends (who I always forget read my blog) with offers of furniture to tide us over until we bought our own. We went and got a beautiful bed frame and bedside table from one friend and now it is set up in our new bedroom it looks lovely. 

In fact, we received help from lots of friends.  One friend drove two lots of valuables from our old house to the new one in her car, another showed up at 10am on Sunday morning to help us schlep the final things out, and then let me crash out in her dining room so I could use her internet (I’m starting back at work today). I’m beyond grateful. 

Of course, that was by no means the end of it. We still had to do a full walkthrough and hand the keys over to the previous landlord, and then there was the usual ongoing final payments of utilities and new accounts for the new home and getting the deposit back.

And then there was the unpacking. So. Much. Unpacking. 

I decided to do things differently this time. While we threw everything in boxes just to get it out of the old house, unpacking everything in the new one was methodical. If we hadn’t used it, worn it, read it, watched it or listened to it in the last year, it was donated or thrown away. Anything we could downsize on, we got rid of, with the general aim being when we are finally in the position to buy our own home, everything we own will be useful, necessary and ready to go. 

And so far, so good. It is still by no means all sorted – we’re still waiting on furniture we ordered a month ago and the landlord and letting agents have made it very clear that they aren’t interested in making any improvements that actually need doing, but hopefully we won’t be here for that long.