Moving home has long been cited as one of the most stressful things we do in our lives, on a par with divorce and bereavement, or for me, breaking up with a fella.
For as long as I can remember, packing up and leaving a home has always proved an especially unhappy drama for me, even if I’m pleased to be starting new chapter somewhere else, and in this case, escaping cockroaches.
As soon as I know I'm never to return to a place my OCD gears in to full swing. Right now I'm not worrying about the paperwork, getting our bond money back, the space in my suitcase, living in a campervan for 42 nights or being homeless in London. I'm fretting about the irrational things. How things are packed in their boxes, removed from shelves, binned, cleaned. It’s hard to explain what it's all about or exactly what the thoughts entail. I mainly worry that the things I do could hurt other people. It's bonkers but it feels so real. Oh that these demons would vanish.
I will pack and leave this flat and nothing bad will happen, and I know that. I haven't even got that much to send away.
I had a lovely (if frantic) final day at work - a great send-off with a card, bubbly and going away present which I managed to use today (it's a generous Myer voucher) with Dad, Cate and Ric in tow! They're in town to say farewell and for some grueling hospital tests. I was pleased to be able to show off my newly set opal earrings. I think my dad is thrilled with them.
Having to give lengthly handovers and be shadowed by two different people within two days (the first girl only lasted a day) was exhausting and difficult. I didn't enjoy handing over my responsibilities, and saying goodbye is always hard. Will I ever find a job where I am valued so highly again? Or perhaps they forget about me in a week?
Ric and I are finally making the most of the beaches here and have been to Bondi and Bronte consecutively this weekend.
The water in the sea is biting cold but you quickly adjust to it and it's fabulous after baking on the hot sand or in a bus on the way there. With temperatures in the high 30s, the crowds were out in their masses. There are more aggressive waves, seaweed (and strangely enough, families) at Bronte. I feel old, pale and fat at Bondi. I'm going to miss these glorious blue skies.
The sea was as crowded as the beaches and swimmers piled on top of each other as the waves crashed down on them. After just half an hour of being bashed about, submerged and dragged along the sea floor it was hard to stay in the water, though I was lured three times. My neck didn't thank me later. Oh, and we got burnt. Fried in fact.
After a blazing hot weekend, it’s grey and drizzly today; which was perfect for shopping and then staying in to pack. I’m trying to do it without thinking. Still got to use up a Kookai voucher tomorrow though which is annoying as all their clothes are for sticks and/or party girls.
We’re using a company called PackSend who will pick the boxes up from the flat adns ship them off to a depot in London.
I've been following the awful news about the bush fires raging through Victoria and NSW. Those poor, poor people. More than 110 dead now. What with the floods sweeping through Queensland, you can never forget overlook that fact that this is a country of extremes.
More on my dad’s visit later. I’ve got the new series of Underbelly to get stuck in to.
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