Are you thinking of moving house – packing up crates filled with your old crap and carting it all to some new pasture where you can remake your life, again, in the hope it might one day be as good as it was that summer when you were 17 and anything seemed possible? Well, I can give you some advice: don’t bother. Moving is shit, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either rich or insane or, possibly, both.
For days I have been surrounded by half-empty boxes; birthday cards from 2003 litter the path to my flat like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail. Piles of crumpled t-shirts loom like a depressing, post-apocalyptic mountain range. There is a cumbersome stereo-system with a working double-tape deck and a rotating 3-CD player in the middle of my living room – how obsolete must technology become before one dumps it? And what am I supposed to do with the DVD cases with no DVDs inside, nine-year old paperwork that I can’t bring myself to throw away, and the boxes full explicit photographs that I might or might not have let an ex-lover snap, back in the days before revenge porn?
And how come all my clothes are inside-out?
Why have I got so many shoes?
I am 300 miles from home. There is no internet connection, no mobile phone reception, and, within seven seconds of arriving, a neighbour with no teeth and a pot belly shouted at me for slamming shut the communal door and waking up her baby. For the first 48 hours in my new home I suffered from a violent sick-bug and was confined to the soulless, empty bedroom, where I shivered on a threadbare towel. And I have spent so much money on furniture and removals vans and estate agents fees that I probably won’t be able to afford a holiday for a decade or more.
It would all be far simpler, I keep imagining, in fraught, feverish rages, if I had a husband to help me lug boxes up the stairs, chuck away odd socks, mop my fevered brow and tell the downstairs neighbours to go fuck themselves. I could curl myself into him and everything would be safe and well and right with the world. I could stroke his face and tell him I loved him and we could make a baby to live in the spare room. Although, of course, the reality is that if I had a husband I would very likely have told him to go fuck himself by now, and, potentially, punched him square in the face. Because this is what I’m like, readers. Especially when I’m strung out and sad and vulnerable. Which is why I don’t have a husband, or, indeed, any applicants for that position.
So I’ve lugged the boxes all by myself, moved furniture, mopped up my vomit and tried my very best to stay in a foul, pessimistic mood. Feeling sorry for oneself is always comforting, after all. But then a waiter in a café gave me a salted caramel shortbread, on the house, because I got teary and homesick ordering a cup of tea. And then some friends invited me for a delicious Japanese meal and their little dog jumped up into my lap and dotted my face with gentle puppy kisses. And last night, as I made my way home from the pub, half pissed and all well again, thankyouJesus, I happened to glance up at the navy night sky. It twinkled back at me, like a blanket of diamonds (except without the blood-money ethical darkness that can fuck one’s enjoyment of diamonds right up the bum-hole, if one isn’t careful) and I thought, ‘this isn’t all bad. This rural life-change’. Despite myself, I felt joyous and hopeful and something very close to happy. It was as though all the rage and bitterness and vitriol that fuels me, my spiky life-force, had been sucked clean out, by nature, like a hungry dog sucking the marrow out of a bone. Which was very nice, of course. Although let’s hope this contented, optimistic phase doesn’t last too long, because how one is supposed to navigate life as a happy person is anyone’s guess.
*Image is a stock picture from freedigitalphotos.net