The House Husband

What a weekend! It has been a case of packing and boxing and taking trips up to the storage facility. The place closes at 3pm on a Sunday and I was so glad when it finally arrived. But, as busy as I’ve been all weekend, the results are well worth it. I do love a good de-clutter.

I am now waiting for the inevitable question “Where is so and so?” to which the answer is going to be “I packed it.” I’m sure mum can sympathise with that one.

I didn’t take a before shot of my study because it was, frankly, a disgusting pig sty. Even Carmen refused to enter and Mirinda hadn’t been through the door for about two years. Day-z, of course, always follows me everywhere so didn’t really have much choice. So, no, I didn’t take a photo before I cleaned it all up. My main fear was that my camera would get permanently clogged with the thirty five feet of dust that lined everything.

My new study #1

And here it is from the other corner:

My new study #2

The top shelf with nothing on it, is waiting for a load of books from downstairs to vacate the crappy bookcase they’re in and make their way upstairs. Mirinda insisted we only have ‘good’ books on show and not the crime thrillers she loves so much. So, Nicci French, Ruth Rendell, Minette Walters and Clare Francis have been banished to the loneliness of the storage facility while books like Cities of Tomorrow and The Future of Higher Education are ready for any unsuspecting house viewer.

Sadly, it’s all been about the storage this weekend. We did manage to walk up to the castle today (Mirinda went without me yesterday so I could burn the rubbish) but that was about it.

Hopefully tomorrow I’ll be visiting a leper’s colony with Dawn and should have lots more to report.

We are still without the Internet. It’s like those movies where there’s a handful of survivors in the boat after the ship sinks and there’s a voice-over saying “53 days and still no sign of land. We ate the cabin boy last night. The men feel awful. Jones thinks it’s indigestion.” But without the Pythonesque cannibalism.

Actually we’ve been far too busy unpacking the boxes that mum spent the last three months packing. 66 there were. She counted them. Once they were all empty and flat packed in the garage. I’m not sure why. She has sworn she will NEVER move again. When I ask her why she’s keeping the 66 boxes she said “In case.”

Speaking of flat pack. I’ve been engaged in a bit of construction myself over the last few days. And I’ve found the best set of flat pack instructions I think I’ve ever seen. I was so impressed, I scanned them and include them below. If you find them hard to understand…well, there’s no hope, I guess. I find it very useful that they thought to include how to deconstruct them as well.

Really tricky flat-pack instructions

I tried the pool today. I’d put together the outside table and chairs (see instructions above) and the sweat was falling in waves. It was so hot, my beer was evaporating before I could drink it. I completed the assembly and announced I was off to try the pool.

I joined an 80 year old long distance swimmer and we cheered each other as we swam laps. Actually, that’s not true. There was no cheering. I was cooling down, steam rising as I submerged into the shallows. He would swim a lap then stop, hugging himself as if freezing. It was not freezing.

I’ve never seen the sense in swimming like a lunatic in a pool. I’m generally there to cool down, not exercise. Exercise seems a bit pointless when you’re cooling down in the water. At least to me.

The pool here is lovely except for one of the rules. NO DIVING. I can understand no running, jumping, splashing, fireworks, gunfights, glass, electricity, etc but I love to dive in! I can only assume it’s because some morons can’t read the depth that is printed on the side of the pool and try and head butt their way to the centre of the earth.

But, enough of my flippancies, here’s a few more photos of mum & dad’s new abode. This is the kitchen.

Mum & Dad's new kitchen

And the corridor which supplies a constant breeze through the tiled house.

Hallway in Mum & Dad's new house - first on the left is my room

And, finally, here’s mum, unpacking her delicates.

Mum finding nothing broken

For a while she was a bit concerned about the whereabouts of Catherine the Great but she turned up eventually.

There is a reason we always use removalists. I’d forgotten. I quickly remembered.

Today mum & dad moved from Golden Beach to Kawana Island. From the second floor of a block of flats to a ground floor duplex. Much better for dad and mum has found her nirvana. We’d only been there ten minutes and she knew about five people. By the time the evening was drawing in, we’d been invited to drinks and to Christmas carols! Amazing woman.

But to return to the move…it was a very hot day. A disgustingly hot day. A melting-Gaz type of day. To say I didn’t like it would be an understatement. I guess you get the idea.

Bob turned up in the world’s biggest van and manfully reversed it into the parking area at the front of the flats and we started the long, hot trudge up and down the stairs, carrying heavy objects, sweating gallons. By the end of the day, regardless of how much water I swallowed, I was a dried up husk.

I shouldn’t moan so much but, honestly, at 55 I should be directing some other poor bastard, not lugging boxes and furniture myself! I guess it’s a just recompense for my multitude of sins. I’m hoping they’re assuaged now. I don’t want to go through that again.

As bad as I make it sound, we managed it all in two trips and about four hours. Tonight I have set up all the electronic stuff (we are being forced to wait for the Internet because Telstra is plain incompetent), put together a flat pack dining table and chairs and searched for various essentials that mum packed into the ‘last box’. It seems there were about 18 of these.

Still, the bedrooms are prepared, we’ve had our fish supper (it was supposed to be three whiting with lemon and chips and six potato scallops but ended up being four whiting and lime and ten potato scallops…don’t ask me why but it may have something to do with my hair…according to mum) and I’m about ready to collapse. Mum has just yelled out that she is off to bed in 10 minutes. Sounds brilliant.

Here’s a view up the side of mum and dad’s new duplex. I’ll take some interior shots as the boxes are reduced.

Mum & Dad's new place at Kawana Island

I keep forgetting to mention a headline I spotted on a TV news ticker a while back (after the Brisbane Test, actually). It read:

Selectors uncertain about choice of Beer

It relates to the introduction of an inexperienced (in Test cricket) Australian cricketer whose surname is Beer and I have to believe that it was expressed this way on purpose.

We have moved Mirinda into her new flat. I have to say that this has been the most painless move EVER. Though it took a little longer than both of us thought it would. This is mostly because of Transport for London but also because Mirinda has managed to acquire a lot of stuff in the short time she’s been at Florin Court.

Mirinda stayed in town Friday night so she could wash and pack, ready for me to arrive first thing. When I say first thing, I arrived at 11 but I was up early to take the poodles for a walk first thing. I was then on the train and then bus. And Mirinda had a surprise for me.

I had maintained that the move would take one trip in a taxi with two suitcases and a few bits and pieces. Boy, was I wrong. She’s already packed the two as well as having a whole collection of Hessian bags full of stuff. And the flat was still full of stuff!

Anyway, we took what we had and hailed a cab for the Isle of Dogs, arriving around 12. Mirinda collected the keys from the concierge, after a brief chat with a foul mouthed window cleaner who had a very original (ineffective) way of touting for business and we let ourselves in.

What a difference to Florin Court! In fact, the entire flat at Florin Court could probably fit into the new bedroom. There’s so much space that I’m sure it will take at least a month for Mirinda to fill it up. Here’s a picture of the lounge and kitchen, which is so much better than mine!

Lounge and kitchen of the new flat

After a short time emptying the bags, I left for another trip to Florin Court while Mirinda went shopping for essentials like sheets and food.

I walked across to the station at Canary Wharf to discover that the Jubilee Line was closed for maintenance. No problem, I figured. I’ll take the Dockland Light Railway to Bank then change for the Circle Line. This started well enough – a minute wait for the DLR train then an uneventful, though crowded, trip to Bank.

The thing with Bank station is that it involves a lot of walking. From one end to the other is about two miles through tunnels, up and down stairs and generally fighting people coming from both directions. I eventually arrived at the Circle Line platform to find out that the Circle Line is closed for maintenance all day as well.

I stood crying for a bit then tried to work out a way to get to Barbican without the Circle Line. Eventually I decided to walk. Fortunately the two suitcases I had with me were empty and on wheels.

It took me about 15 minutes and I quickly packed the suitcases with as much as I could then hailed a second cab to take me back to the Isle of Dogs, arriving at about 3. Mirinda had been busy, buying some lunch and visiting the world’s biggest Waitrose for some sheets and pillowslips.

After unpacking and planning the final move (on Wednesday) we left for home. This took four hours. Mainly because the Jubilee Line was closed.

We decided to take the ferry – big mistake! For a few reasons. It was the first Saturday of the school holidays, it was a Saturday in London and the Circle and Jubilee Lines were shut.

We only had a wait of 10 minutes for the next ferry but it was late and then didn’t pick anyone up! Ages later we finally managed to be among the 47 people who were allowed to join the next one.

The thing with the ferry is, after the first bit, it creeps along at about 1 knot for the rest of the journey. This is normally a pleasant little ride but not when you’ve been moving flat all day.

After a very long time we arrived at Waterloo and realised we’d just missed the 7pm train and had to wait half an hour. Mirinda went hunting for food while I waited with the empty suitcases.

We eventually walked into the house at 9pm and were attacked by two excited puppies. What a day. Personally, I blame Boris Johnson.

Just to end on a bright note, here’s the view from Mirinda’s new balcony.

The view from the balcony

¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
I see that Nicktor has starting making comments on the blog. Interestingly, he doesn’t seem to be able to spell his own name! Fair enough, I guess, he didn’t make it up in the first place.