Anyway, the move went pretty well on the whole, though it was not without incident. On gaining access to the house for the first time, it was obvious that the whole place needs redecorating: this is because the previous owner was a bit of an art collector, and when she took away all her paintings she left behind a forest of picture hooks at irregularly spaced intervals, exposing fifty shades of grey rectangle on the walls beneath.
Consequently, shortly after my arrival in the house my perfume collection was exiled to a downstairs shower cubicle curiously located in the utility room, while one of my perfume fridges was immediately pressed into service as emergency storage for the perishable stuff from the old house, Mr Bonkers having only been interested in securing custody of the milk, margarine and a couple of pizzas.
Incorrect labelling is a surefire recipe for moving mayhem
The making of my bed was delayed 48 hours by the non-appearance of the mattress protector, only for it to surface in a box marked "kitchen", cosying up to the missing stash of Kettle Chips I had just fancied snacking on on my first night. In my defence, this was one of the boxes the removal men packed on the day, its comedy combination of contents doubtless prompted by haste rather than a sense of mischief.
Do the moving men mug maths
On the day of the move, the alarming realisation quickly dawned that I only had access to two mugs to be shared amongst three thirsty removal men. Consequently, more mental energy was expended on the organisation of an elaborate mug usage roster - "If Stewart and Tony just had a drink, it must be Vin's turn...so where is Tony's mug, then?" - than on almost any other aspect of this complex logistical exercise.
By which I specifically mean the room measurements really, to enable you to gauge what furniture goes where. Sounds easy enough, but even with the best laid scribbled dimensions on a piece of file paper you can't quite put your hand on on the day (along with mugs 3 to 30), a couple of bulky upstairs items are bound to end up temporarily sidelined in a downstairs room. Here they await the moment when (with any luck) a sudden access of spatial awareness may strike you and their final resting place will become apparent.
Okay, so this one didn't really wash with me, and the photo key didn't help much either.
Assume an indefinite procession of visitors with dirty feet
On moving day, after the removal men have effected the elaborate swaddling of your new house using giant rolls of sticky cling film in a bid to minimise the traipsing in and through of dirt, it becomes unthinkable that anyone visiting the house in future will ever be allowed to make direct contact between shoe and carpet again.
Pets will play on your conscience by holding out for premium food
Yes, since Charlie Bonkers was successfully transplanted to the new house, she has been on selective hunger strike, by refusing to eat her normal fare of IAMS crunchies. The unspoken message appears to be: "Look, I have been fairly adaptable through all of this disruption and upheaval, so if you don't give me top of the range foil pouches instead of this gravel stuff that hurts my five remaining teeth, I shall start chowing on down on this cheese plant, poisonous or not."
Yes, a cat that is reckless enough to chew on the leaves of a cheese plant in a fit of pique is capable of launching itself off the landing through one of the generous gaps in the banisters, much like the generations of thrill-seeking babies that went (head first) before it.
And finally, although I didn't capture the cheese plant-eating incident on camera, I did witness Charlie Bonkers' close encounter with a bed of cat nip during her first supervised outing in the garden. At least I assume it was cat nip, though I am not very hot on plants as we have established.
