Whether or not I end up with a pink bathroom suite remains to be seen. But I simply cannot not blog about moving, or even the horrible stuff that happens before it.
26 years ago we did it with a book. Obviously. I was a fledgling bookwitch even back then. It went quite well, on the whole, so this time round I’m expecting the worst. I bought a new edition of that life-saving book on moving, but I am not hopeful.
We are pruning. Bookwitch Towers isn’t even on the market yet, but it is bursting at the seams – rather like its mistress – and something has to be done. So we flit from one corner to another, flinging stuff in an outwardly direction. Freegle is good for some things. There are now rescued greyhounds no longer shivering thanks to our old duvets. (The Resident IT Consultant had to google the greyhounds, to see if they were rescued, or rescuing. You know, St Bernhard style, except with accompanying duvet.)
The woman who took the electric barbecue blessed me, while the one who took our holey jeans made sure the Resident IT Consultant wasn’t off to the cinema to see something she wouldn’t approve of. He didn’t know. But she did approve in the end (which will be because I was the one who picked the film).
I started pulling at the books in a listless and unplanned manner, which is why I gave up again and went to write this instead.
But as I was saying, I will need to supplement my meagre book-blogging with moving tales. You’ll be crying in the aisles.