So we’re moving house again, which in itself is always irritatingly awful but we’re doing it for the third time in two years, which is just beyond ridiculous. Prior to immigrating, we had stayed in the same home for twenty odd years. You might have noticed that I called it a home in the previous sentence and not a house. That’s because it takes a while for a mere house to mature into a home, a process of many years, not a few measly months.
In my eyes a home is a sanctuary that reflects it’s inhabitants personality. A place where you can feel comfortable and secure. A place to unwind and enjoy your private time. A place to be proud of and it is essentially a part of you. Whereas a house is merely a lifeless, cold concrete box, there to keep the weather out and store all of your precious crap.
To cut it short, we are moving again because our current place, while spacious and neat, is just too damn noisy. We didn’t realize that, what looked like a small, inconsequential road, actually turned out to be a miniature highway in disguise. Mainly used by moped and scooter driving idiots, who’s highlight in life seems to be to rev their ‘roadhogs’ to near breaking point, squealing to high heaven while shooting down the road, squeezing every last drop of high pitched, eardrum piercing noise from their disgusting little machines at any hour of the day and night. Another little thing that the agent forgot to mention is the fact that we are in the landing and take off lane of the nearby airport, which we didn’t notice at first because we moved in during the first Corona lock down last year and there was no air traffic at the time( thank you very much, skeevy little real estate agent man). The icing on the cake is that an Antonov AN-225 regularly lands at the airport and while the largest airplane in the world might be a marvel of modern engineering, it not only makes one hell of a racket when it passes over my place , it also has the benefit of causing the whole place to vibrate like an epileptic sheep. One year of that is more than enough, thank you very much.
The kids are of course all excited at the prospect of yet another move and for some reason seem to enjoy the entire process immensely. My wife is nervous and constantly frets about the placement of our belongings in the new place, all the while packing away and organizing the female portion of the family's metric ton of clothes... her and the girls seem to have enough clothing to outfit a small Moroccan bazaar. Me? I just want to get it over and done with as fast and with as little hassle as possible.
The previous tenants left the new place in one hell of a state. All evidence suggests that they were in all actuality a family of Sus Scrofa Domesticus, commonly referred to as the domestic pig, in disguise. Keeping a low profile while they secretly insinuate themselves into human society. The walls and floors where filthy. The kitchen was just nasty and the bedrooms left a lot to be desired. The bathrooms were beyond disgusting and the attic was stuffed full of some seriously random junk. The owner has been trying to sort it out by himself and the help of a random “contractor”, who appears to be about as capable as a one legged man in an ass kicking contest. So last week, after seeing what the guy was doing with the bathroom renovation, I told the landlord to please get rid of the guy and let me do the rest to get the place into shape as long as he pays for the materials.
So I’ve been doing a semi renovation there during the week whenever I find the time. While also going about my everyday job at the same time, which just so happens to be renovation and I think everyone just LOVES going about ones job only to then do it some more in the evening.
The Corona lock down hasn’t helped matters either, as I’m unable to go to a store to buy some new furniture, a stove that the pig-people broke or even curtains. I could order them online but I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to fall for that again. I usually get the short end of the stick in those situations and will inevitably end up with a three seater couch, scaled to hobbit proportions or dining room chairs more brittle than last weeks toast. They arrive in 432 pieces, conveniently distributed over 12 boxes, including an instructional manual written in what I can only refer to as spanglish and take half a day to assemble. No thanks, I’d rather be in the store and physically touch the item before I buy the product.
At least almost everything is done. Most of our things are packed up, ready to be hauled to the new place. There’s some painting left to finish and a bit of wiring I need to sort out but otherwise the place is ready to be moved into. Of course there are still a ton of smaller things that I want to do but I’ll sort those out once we've moved and are already staying there. I'm really not looking forward to what comes right after the move though. The single, most irritating part of the whole undertaking. Unpacking. That means sorting out where everything is going to go and finding the best spot for all the furniture. Then, knowing my wife, rearranging it all a day or two later because, 'obviously that's not the best spot for the sofa, it really would look so much better on the other side of the room. Don't you think?'