Brown tape, brown cardboard boxes; dear god, it's moving day

So I moved on the weekend. And drunk Belgian beer with Beth and others. But mostly the moving thing.

No, the limp is only temporary and the ligaments will reattach any time soon. Last time I ever: (a) do this without removalists; and (b) turn down spontaneous offers of help from several friends. But at the time, I really did think I’d only need help with my bookshelf, mattress and bed-head. And my old landlord and new flatmates did give me a hand with those and other big items.

Still, I managed to foolishly wind up doing perhaps a bit too much on my own.

There is always so much more stuff than you anticipate, and it takes so much longer. Still, zooming about in a rental one-ton van was pretty nifty, once I got over my initial terror and remembered how to drive a manual.

Observation on moving from Thornbury to East Brunswick: only ten minutes apart by car, and it really does feel like the difference between the suburbs and the inner city – farewell excessively wide nature strips, farewell Italian and Greek pensioners taking their constitutional stroll; hello narrow, grassless pavements and share-house students on bicycles. Big plusses of the new house: it’s warm, the bathroom doesn’t flood every time you step from the shower, and it’s much handier for public transport. (I caught a tram to work this morning and it only took 20 minutes!)

I have also gone from sharing with one cat, to two. Munchka – who is the cutest little thing, enough to warm even the heart of a confirmed cat-sceptic like myself – and her somewhat overweight son, He Who Reigns in Darkness and Terror (actually, he’s been pretty good to me so far, I just don’t recall his name).

Still unpacking though, and I have an inter-state visitor this weekend. Perhaps I’m trying to cram a little too much in at the moment …