We're in...

We did it - managed to move house at 6 days' notice! The Boy and I spent 11 days living in a caravan whilst The Husband sorted out the very worst aspects of our new house and made it safe and somewhat less stinky.

It's a great space - decoratively speaking, everything in it has got to come out and be replaced, but that's long-term thinking. We're dealing with fag-ash riddled carpets and curtains and some very dodgy electrics and heating just now...

The Boy loves it - so much more space for streaking around stark naked after his bath, and playing in the garden - the neighbours are greeted every morning by his little voice saying 'Daddy get the dog poo...'.

Still, we're in, we're happy, and we're knackered. Normal service will resume as soon as I am not surrounded by cardboard boxes.

6 days and counting...

Yes, I am still alive, have not dropped off the earth, or drowned in a sea of morning sickness (although I did come close on that one...)

I've been mostly running around swearing about estate agents, solicitors, house sellers and house buyers. This culminated in a phone call from our solicitors yesterday asking if we would like to move house on Monday. In 6 days time. We're not even exchanged contracts yet, never mind booked a removal firm or started packing...anyway, we said yes. It's insane, but it has to be done.

So, my life currently resembles the opening scene of Four Weddings and a Funeral - everyone running around saying 'fuck' a lot; although I'm just hoping that if my toddler repeats what he heard a few times yesterday, people will kindly pretend to believe that we were baking 'Fairycakes'

Will be back to rebuild this now sorry excuse for a blog at some point when the dust has settled.

In the meantime, I will be living in a caravan, reading a lot and trying to get some rest!

Caught Red Handed

OK, I'm currently thoroughly snowed under with trying to sell the house, and being a very flaky blogger as a result. It's no mean feat to get a house that has contained a not-quite-two-year-old all day looking like a spotless haven of unrealistic perfection and tranquility, every time the agent rings up and says 'can you do a viewing at 7:15?'. I apologise, and will be back in your comment boxes again shortly, sanity permitting.

So far, we've had two couples who adored the house and wanted to buy it, but couldn't or wouldn't stretch to the asking price. One of them was practically spreadeagled across the breakfast bar, licking it with delight, so I did feel a bit guilty to disappoint, but still...we'll get there in the end. Let it be a lesson to all estate agents that if buyers are going to concoct stories to try and get a discount, they'll need to be rather more intelligent than the ones we've heard so far.

In the meantime, it seems that The Boy and The Husband have got me worked out rather better than I thought. Mooching around the kitchen the other day, I spotted an open packet of my little boy's snack du jour - Pom Bears. 'I'll just have one', I lied to myself. As I slipped my hand in, I felt something soft, dry, and not at all like a teddy-bear-shaped potato crisp.

It was a piece of kitchen roll. 'Very odd - The Husband must have thought it would keep them fresh. Men, eh?', I reasoned to myself. As I put the kitchen roll down, I noticed some scrawl written across it. The scrawl said;

Mummy,

These are MY crispies.

Hands off.

Love,

The Boy.xx

I'm not sure which is worse - that I got caught out stealing my little boy's snacks, or that my taste has deteriorated from the dizzy heights of Sea Salt and Balsamic Vinegar Kettle Chips to the point where Pom Bears are an exciting snack sensation.

They are good though...

Other Peoples' Houses

I should be quite the expert at moving house, all things considered.

I have done it 7 times in the past twelve years, with an average of one move every 13 months. So you would have thought I'd have got the hang of it by now.

This is sadly not the case, despite my ability to segue seamlessly into White Van Man behaviour the second I've finished loading and handed the keys over. Mind you, The Husband doesn't like that sort of thing, so we hire people now...

It's been very tedious - I've been colour coding the local A-Z according to school catchment areas, making viewing appointments and graciously explaining to estate agents that 'a good-sized family home - it must be child-safe, but I don't care how minging the decor is.' does not mean 'Please show me every tiny cubby hole on your books that's been cheaply done over by someone with a tragic fondness for property porn and overblown hopes of a huge profit. You dirty, thieving bastards.

Other people's houses are fascinating. Apart from the voyeuristic pleasure of having a peep behind someone else's curtains, I always come away feeling greatly relieved that other people do not necessarily have cleaner, tidier houses, an innate feel for exquisite interior design, more expensive furniture, well-kept gardens and lifestyles straight out of the glossy pages of Good Housekeeping magazine. It makes me feel quite adequate, which is always A Good Thing.

Other people's houses can also be very odd. Why, for example, would Mr & Mrs H at number 54 choose to have an en-suite shower room and king-sized bed taking up so much space in their tiny master bedroom that they need to keep their wardrobes in the next room? And what's with Mr & Mrs P at nunber 45 - don't they know that if you smoke a pipe and allow your cats to spray your furniture liberally with Eau de Tom, you should at least consider trying to disguise the smell on viewing days?

From the other side of the fence, I would also like to apologise to Mrs ? at number 42 - my little boy had just had a very long and boring morning looking around number 44, and he never normally does that in the street.

And so it begins. Wish me luck - this project is going to be taking up a lot of my time in the coming weeks, and my attempts to be light-hearted and amusing about it here will be my lifeline to sanity. The last move saw me hiding in the hole where the fridge used to be, rocking backwards and forwards with my head between my knees, as the spotty teenaged removal men bounced my piano down the stairs. It still hasn't recovered.

Perhaps this solution might be the best bet, although if our local removal firms can't manage a small, upright piano, I don't fancy our chances of getting away with it...

Courtesy of boeke&maverickapollo @ flickr