Moving house is pure hell

I have no idea how I managed to squeeze quite so much stuff into a finite space. It is a skill of sorts but not in a good way. I seem to have created worm holes - cupboards and dark corners that change things into a different space, time zone, where matter multiplies uncontrolled. 

In the hell of trying to tackle this stuff it felt like the magic porridge pot and the out of control porridge lapped around my feet. Dominik became the spectator of hell with a large ladle stirring the porridge. Chiming in… ‘is that all you’ve cleared?’ After for instance a day in laurie’s room sifting through the mounds of books and old clothes under his bed. Every item needed to be reviewed, dusted, processed into one of four piles, keep, throw, charity, give to friends. 

But I did carry on heading straight into the sea of porridge trying to stem its flow. Dominik cleared a few areas but with so much self congratulation I wanted to pop him upside down into the bubbling pot…

There was the odd interesting and uplifting moment. Such as finding the spare car keys at the bottom of the basket of stuffed animals or the most extraordinary amount of sweet wrappers behind Laurie’s bed as if we’d infact housed the most enormous rat.  

The other high spot was when a sort of delirium hits and you begin to sweep what becomes unidentifiable and unimaginable debris with careless abandon into the bin. Bin bags became my best friend and I loved heaping them into piles.