Moving House and Battling Evil Stair Cases
Is the number of calories burnt whilst moving house, worth the number of muscles pulled?
You know you've had a shocker of a weekend when this is your first thought on a Monday morning. Yes, it’s official… moving house is traumatic, laborious and downright dangerous. Packing had me in tears – I blame the thought of parting with my 'precious memories' i.e. old letters, ticket stubs and paper napkins (yes, I keep it ALL!). I am a self-confessed hoarder... as a writer, my life is a journal and every scrap of paper is a potential masterpiece. I give the bag ladies in Victoria Street a run for their money!
Paper aside, there is also the wardrobe to conquer. How one is supposed to part with clothes is beyond me. Loved ones repeatedly give me the following ever-patronising advice;
"If you haven't worn it for a year, chuck it!"
Haven't they read Vogue?! Today's fashion mistake could be next year's one-off collector’s item. Don't blame me if I blow a fuse down Portobello Road next year. If I see my beloved faux snake skin clompers on sale for the price of a small tropical island, I may well deck someone. Gracefully of course!
In most cases, moving the entire contents of your home usually involves roping in unsuspecting car owners who used to call themselves your friends. In our case, we battled the tube. Never again.
In a bid to save our already slipping disks, we called in the relatives. I can safely say I now owe them my life. Full-blown domestics were avoided (though how, I'll never know). It took them 5 hours to get to London in what should have been a one-hour journey. Damn that M1.
For the record:
Why is there always less cupboard space in the new place?
Why does it always rain in London on the weekend, only to return to blue skies on Monday mornings?
How the hell are you supposed to program a new television?
So I threw away the instruction manual? How was I supposed to know they were important?!
Where on earth did we pack that damn bottle opener?
In a bid to break up the monotony of packing, a number of social outings were planned. The press night for 'The Next Big Thing' took me on a journey through drugs, sex and rock'n'roll. This musical covers the British Music scene with refreshing and hilarious honesty. I just happened to sit next to the mother of lead actress Melissa Lloyd. A warm love for all proud mums washed over me when she turned across to me in the opening scene and whispered "that's my daughter!" Her husband, ex-captain of the West Indies Cricket team grunted in what I'm sure was pride. Or maybe surprise at his daughter’s tight fitted red dress. Sex on legs, though I didn’t tell him that. I wonder if their memories of the 70's are as vividly corrupt as the scenes played out on stage before us. A cracking show if you're a music lover - it covers “everything from the Beatles to Brit pop... and all the b**ll**ks in between”.
The free champagne was a show stealer too. It also seemed to make off with my memory. If you happen to find it, please get in touch.
A somewhat more sober and sombre theatrical experience met us at the National Theatre where Coram Boy is showing until February 4th 2006. It was one of those cases where you head out knowing nothing about the play you're about to see, and get your socks knocked off. A tale of two orphans at the 18th Century Coram Hospital for Deserted Children in the may not sound overly inspiring (and for two tired house movers it almost wasn't). By interval however, we'd witnessed deceit, child trafficking, and infantile genocide - all in disturbingly graphic detail. Baby corpses are not something you see on your average Saturday night out... and not something I want to see again. But, I'm glad I have. It gave me an insight into the nasty side of British history and was better than any Eastenders episode I've ever seen. Did I mention the second half features shootings, drowning, love, lies and revenge? There are also some amazing choral pieces thrown into the mix.
To jar my nervous system even further, it also happens to be fireworks season. I hate the damn things. Why anyone want to risk life and limb by setting light to explosives is beyond me. You're all mad. To every one of you that lit a firecracker, shame! Every dog, cat and Katie Spain in the country is suffering from the after shock. Thank you very much.
Seriously, over the weekend children were hurt, a dog was blown up and a horse was killed. Don't even get me started on what a waste of money the nasty little time bombs are. New shoes will get you further and won't give you burn marks.
Blister marks however, are another matter. I knew I shouldn't have lugged those boxes wearing heels. They just don't make staircases like they used to!
This week better be a good one – my sanity depends on it.