Moving…the other side.

You may be idly pondering, between figuring out what to do with all the gift wrap left lying around after a veritable present opening orgy, ‘How did the move go for Geohde avec twins at the Silly Season?’. Perhaps. Maybe you’re enjoying your Christmas instead rather more than I am. The move, searching for something positive to say, went.

Fairly rapidly, actually. The Big Men With Truck had us out and in within three sweaty hours.

But.

The wrinkles it has given me shall require the Ponds Institute to really get cracking on a solution rather better than their current set.

 I hate moving.

 HATE it.

To be completely clear as to how I feel, I lothe with passion reserved for root canals, tax audits, tin-shaking charity collections when imprisoned at red traffic lights, and end of shift requests to review a patient with new rectal bleeding because I’m going to have to stick my finger up their bum and then go home and eat.

Anyway. I got distracted there for a minute. Many apologies.

Lest I forget the ongoing horror, the NEXT TIME I talk about moving house, remind me of this post, will you?

In summary, the new house = lovely. Well the constructed bits are.

Unfortunately we still have no mirrors, paint seems to be an optional extra despite it being firmly in the contract, and just for kicks nobody actually connected any hot water to the bathrooms.

Invigorating cold showers it is Chez MII until the plumber gets back from their yearly holiday somewhere where the temperature of water isn’t a problem. Arsehole.

At least there is one problem we shan’t have. Bathroom Issues. Add to the two thirty-something pack of bog rolls I brought to stuff the new house with (painful lesson learned on another move), all the rolls from the old place and, well, it’s safe to have your attack of dysentery here.

I hate moving house.