Moving home is stressful – yes I am stating the bleedin’ obvious – but last week we moved and it was like a Brian Rix farce.
Teenwolf has a broken arm, the long suffering husband a broken rib and as I stuffed washing in the machine at 8am 3 days before our move my back went. Unable to move and uncharacteristically without my phone I just had to lie on the floor and holler until 20 mins later ‘the rib’ heard me.
‘The arm’ aka Teenwolf lay asleep like a stone not registering my baleful cries for help. . This has started another line of paranoia. If the smoke alarms went off do teenagers hear them? I don’t know if they would – I digress.
We had Pickfords on the job. Don ‘the biscuit man’s’ team in charge. If I could canonise them I would cos not one of us could help. They had to do everything and didn’t complain once. Not once.
So as I sit propped up and looking at the sea of boxes to be emptied all I care about is getting the arm, the rib and the back up and running, then back online and getting back to this blog then by Christmas finding my clothes. My how things change.
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