I said I’d reflect on the joys and traumas of moving house, and since this blog is my diary it would be daft not to.
Put simply, the relocation from Cambridge to Sheffield would be some way down my list of Magic Memories, even below the hell of the 67th to 91st minutes at the Etihad on 13.5.12 and a Polish Midnight Mass (2 hours, no Christmas carols) in 2016.
You’ll know, if you read this stuff rather than just looking at the pics of lacings and mobility scooters, that we’ve been planning an escape from the flatlands to the hills for years.
Look! There’s a hill right outside our door!
It leads to a ski slope, a red light area and a microbrewery. A lethal combination.
The move allows us to be close to our two lads and the bright lights of Sheffield and Manchester, if they’re ever switched on again.
Sheffield also has fast WiFi so Mrs RM can work from home, as well as drinking IPAs from plastic cups in between redecoration and walks to leftie vegan shops (her words).
But a fortnight ago I didn’t think I’d be moving. Ever.
We accepted an offer on our house in mid August, from a lovely couple enticed by proximity to our great local boozer and artisan pizzeria (and possibly school and London links).
House “sold”, we headed to Sheffield, looked at three places and had an offer accepted in early September on a house between Hillsborough and Kelham Island.
And then we waited. And signed documents. And waited. And waited. Our buyers were desperate to move in before Christmas. Covid had slowed conveyancing down to a crawl.
And then in mid November, 4 months later, our buyers started asking questions about a little tree next door and asked if they could dig up our foundations to check the depth.
The suggestion that a little (unidentified) tree over the fence might cause our house to collapse (never mind our move) prompted me to spend a weekend digging up the path to prove roots weren’t invading our house, and a specialist tree surgeon identified a harmless Hazel tree to put the buyers mind at rest.
Having fixed a date, we then had 11 days to move our gear (mostly shoes and LPs) into storage so Mrs RM could clean the house before we left.
TEN trips to Big Yellow Storage in 11 days followed, leaving about 27 minutes to clean the oven and deliver the keys.
WHY oh why does the key have to be delivered to the centre of Cambridge? Or collected from the estate agent in Crookes without any parking for a bike, let alone a van ?
Organising your own move rather than paying professionals is SO much more fun.
But it’s over now, and I’m not moving ever again. Ever.
Not when there’s somewhere selling beer for £2.60 a pint on the doorstep.