If you follow me on social media (probably not), you may be aware – unless you live under a rock, or my posts have fallen victim to the BLOODY INSTAGRAM ALGORITHM – that I’ve moved house. Finally. FINALLY, I’m free from living in the middle of nowhere, up four flights of stairs, with neighbours who stink out the communal areas with their questionable body odour. (Sorry, Number 15.)
Not going to lie: I thought moving house would basically be a doddle. Easy peasy. A whirlwind of Pinterest boards and copper accessories and eating pizza on the floor of an empty living room, loving life. And was it? LOL NO! If you can’t be bothered reading this post, I’ll give you a spoiler alert: it sucked. I hated every moment of moving house with every fibre of my being, and, frankly, I don’t think I’m being dramatic. Here’s why.
I was moving with my boyfriend – we already lived together, but in my apartment – to a 3 bed house in Bramhall. I don’t speak about my boyfriend that much on social media, and he’s camera-shy AF (let’s be honest: the amount of evidence that he exists is pretty minimal – I could just be making him up at this point), but he’s an all-round good egg that I have a special place in my heart for. However: I’ve never wanted to kill him more than when we were moving. I wanted to punch him in the face until he STOPPED MOANING ABOUT PACKING. I wanted to throw him out of my fourth-floor window so he’d stop HEAVY BREATHING whilst wrapping things in bubble wrap. I wanted to burn the new lease in front of him and make him homeless so he’d STOP TELLING ME WHAT FURNITURE TO DISASSEMBLE NEXT. Moving house is possibly the most strenuous thing you can put a relationship through: with the amount of side-eye and under-our-breath-muttering going on in my apartment, it’s a wonder we stayed together to actually move.
So: we didn’t kill each other, and got to the new house. Now the fun should start, yes? No. Putting flatpack furniture up together is the most frustrating thing in the world. Half my acrylic nails pinged off. I’m bruised like a peach. I have never sworn quite so much: the air was literally blue. I put half the stuff together wrong, and the other half? I had such little faith in my handiwork that I didn’t really want to put my full weight on anything.
Once the house was put together, we started realising all those things that you need to know when you move – which, naturally, we’d not bothered to find out beforehand. If you’re moving soon: check that your house has a phone line, because ours didn’t. Nor could an engineer fit one, so I’ve been without internet for nearly 2 weeks, waiting for Virgin Media to kick in. Check that your house has a TV aerial (seriously), because, yet again, ours doesn’t: it has a dummy socket, which caused a rollercoaster of emotions after putting the TV unit up all day. Make sure that your hob isn’t an induction, because otherwise those many pots and pans you’ve accrued over the last few years won’t work – I’m down to one sautée pan and have to buy a full new set that works with an induction hob. These little issues can really take the shine off moving house, so I’d aim to find out all these bits and bobs beforehand (unless you enjoy spending 40 minutes of your life on hold with PlusNet, in which case, feel free to ignore my advice.)
However, whilst I do enjoy a moan: admittedly, moving house isn’t all doom and gloom. There have been some lovely moments: finally opening that bottle of champagne I’d saved and having a real dinner at our dining room table; having a garden to sunbathe in – honestly, I didn’t realise how much I missed being able to GO OUTSIDE; being closer to work is the dream, and getting into Manchester in thirty minutes (£15 Uber FTW) is changing the face of my social life. I’ve got a guest bedroom now, so my London gals can pop down; I’ve got a garage, so no more missed Yodel deliveries.
Moving house has been a drama. I’ve cried in sweatpants in the living room after destroying an Ikea Lappland bookcase. I’ve spent hideous amounts of money on bubblewrap. I’ve lost the will to live more than once, and questioned the decision to move a dozen more. But, do I regret it? Hell naw. I’m here to stay.