September 19th, 2002

(no subject)

The logistical nightmares of this move are driving me crazy.

People do this all the time. Other relationships where both parties work manage, I'm sure.

I'm boring the pants off everyone I know about this, but that's probably because it really is taking up most of my mental processing power just now. If you know me, sorry, it will get better after Tuesday, I promise. Well, it had better get better, or nobody I know will be speaking to me any more. Including, I suspect, me.

The sheer volume of Stuff Which We Need To Deal With is frightening. There are six different utility companies involved, for instance. Seven if you count the cable TV firm at the old place who we need to tell to switch it all off, at some point. Two different councils. A list of companies and such that we need to notify that had reached sixty-plus names the last time I dared to look at it.

We have a slight advantage in that the old place is not actually going away - well, I suppose they usually don't, unless your house is scheduled for demolition or falls into a transdimensional portal or something. What I mean is that people are not moving in straight away (or, as yet, at all, until we sort out some tenants. Anyone want to rent a four-bedroom semi in Sutton, UK?) so issues like making sure post gets forwarded and all of our stuff really does get moved out by time X on date Y are a bit less critical.

I'm wondering if it would have reduced the disruption if we'd told the removal firm to do the packing as well as the actual shifting of boxes and furniture. The sheer disruption, the level of "hell's wits, why can't I find X? I suppose it's in a box already" (especially when X is the tin of sugar) is starting to get to me. But I suspect the disorganisation resulting from someone else packing would have been worse. At least we know roughly what's in the boxes - as geeks, of course we have numbered the boxes and put the checklist and contents into a database - so we may have some chance of finding things again over the next few months.

Months? A little optimistic, maybe. Years.

And it won't really end when we're sitting atop a pile of boxes on Tuesday and waving goodbye to the removal men. There'll still be waiting for the new furniture to turn up - is it just me or are fourteen-week delivery times taking the piss? - and there'll be decorating and DIY to do at the old place, and finding a cleaner, and talking to the gardener, and trying to sort out that cranky window, and actually doing the unpacking, and remembering that the mortgage has gone up quite a bit, and trying to remember those last few people we didn't tell we'd moved, and having people over to visit, and spending money on stuff we didn't realise we'd need...

And am I looking forward to this? At this point, no, no, hell, no. The next few days are going to be completely shitful.

It'll be lovely when it's done. But "done" is many months away. Sigh.

Two things I expect never to do again

Ten years ago I was probably about this stressed, too, though for different reasons.

Ten years ago yesterday I submitted my Ph.D. thesis, after a write-up period involving working 70-hour weeks for six months solid (about average, then).

Ten years ago next Thursday I married my beloved.

I do not recommend the combination of writing up and wedding organisation; it makes for extreme crankiness during the pre-wedding period and falling asleep a lot during the first week of one's honeymoon...