Moving house... so time for an overseas trip or be admitted to hospital

Why...

Does my wife and I moving to a new house together equate to impending divorce? My wife was brought up a military brat and so as a kid moved to a new house every two or three years. To her, it’s a disciplined exercise, undertaken with logic. To me it’s a maelstrom of chaos mixed with a healthy dollop of fear. Without fail, the one thing I need will be in the last box I unpack. This means as soon as we arrive, I start emptying one of 300 boxes to find this missing necessity (for example my lucky underpants worn at crucial meetings), without which life as I know it will cease and my business will go bust. On our first move together, my scurrying from box to box emptying contents all over the floor to unpack that moment’s ‘must find item’ upset my wife and sent her off to find a pick-ax to discourage me from my manic actions. That was the first and last time we moved house together. We survived the experience thanks to industrial strength tranquillisers, a plantation’s output of tobacco and a vat full of booze. After that trauma, during all other moves I have either:

  1. been in the US on business,
  2. been in hospital with pneumonia
  3. or left the country at the start of a tax year.
By some miracle each time I arrive back at our new home, I find nearly everything unpacked and all that’s left is to hang the pictures and iron my lucky underpants.

...and another thing

Today as I write this en route to North America for a series of business meetings, my wife is rolling up her sleeves to begin filling a platoon of packing cases as we move to a different house in Malta. The only ones more stressed than me are the dogs who when I left were carefully checking which packing crate contained their dog food, leads and balls. Clouseau, the French Bulldog even tried to piss on it to make sure he could find it at the new house.

As for removal companies, I am amazed how quickly a house full of clutter and memories can be swallowed up, loaded into these huge vans and regurgitated into a new house in what seems like moments. It takes me hours just to pack a suitcase.

And are they the last green business? No plastic. It’s all cardboard, rope and muscle… though they do leave a footprint of sorts no matter which country. Cigarette buts in the loo and spilt sugar for tea in the kitchen!

When we came to Malta the only thing that got broken was the safe! Something that is meant to be impregnable, fell victim to removal men.

Apparently for security reasons you cannot transport a closed safe (just in case you want to fill it with drugs or the head of the traffic warden who gave you a borderline out of time ticket). You must therefore take the door off to show it is empty. Our safe door was heavier than a jumbo jet and they dropped it. The thud was recorded on the Richter scale in Malta as a 5.4 earthquake. And it bent so had to be replaced.

...and another thing

If anyone can pull any strings with the Holy See, could they please persuade His Holiness the Pope to canonise my wife as St. Kirsten, Patron Saint of Moving House.

And before I get reprimanded by you for not appreciating all this, my wife does have:

  1. a) a diamond ‘guilt ring’ from the first move when in New York,
  2. b) a tanzanite pendent from when in hospital,
  3. c) a diamond and tanzanite bracelet when I was out for tax reasons

and…

d) a little something from Cartier is winging it’s way to her as you read this.

Maybe my wife is not only a Saint, but actually very, very smart… and for me, I counter balance the gift of a little glitter as cheaper than a divorce. Plus, I get security in knowing where those lucky underpants are when I need them.

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One Comment

  1. Lucy says:

    I know you will both survive the move! And yes you certainly have given her lots of “glitz” which she wears well.

    My love to both of you,