Home Sweat Home

Last week someone said to me that moving from one home to another was the single biggest cause of suicide during the Victorian era. I find that hard to believe. Poverty surely would win, in that era and any other. But being in the midst of a move—which this person knew about so his statement was neither particularly helpful nor tactful—I can attest that it is pretty traumatic. It has an air of uncertainty that no amount of planning or organisation can completely vanquish. Indeed I can state from personal observation that the more organised you are the more stressful it is when things start to go wrong. My wife, whom I can state emphatically is the most organised person I know, planned this move almost on her own. She did a superb job. Not so those entrusted to implement her plans. Our so-called “professional movers” (three of them) can be best be characterised as The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse on draught horses. They wreaked mayhem but at a pace more redolent of Helen Clark’s libido. As a consequence our move took longer than expected and was more expensive than anticipated. But…we are now ensconced. And this weekend, with that slow but still chilling clip-clop clip-clop receding into the distance we plan to enjoy every moment of our new home.