Saturday 6th February 2016 - Moving House

If I've learnt anything from today, it's that moving house on a hangover is the worst idea I have ever had in my entire life. It was, without doubt, the most painful experience I have ever had to endure, and as a result I have decided to never EVER a) drink, or b) move house, EVER AGAIN.

If you think that's dramatic, you should have seen me after removal trip #4. I imagine I turned a fair few heads as I whimpered my way down the street laden with bags, lamps, baskets, books, suitcases, shoes, pans, rugs, radios, plates, clothes, more shoes, and a laptop which weighs more than a small man. The short, and normally rather pleasant, stroll between the mouse hole and my gorgeous new pad, transformed me into an emotional wreck of a woman, who could last only a couple of minutes before dropping everything on the pavement and dramatically contemplating the need for belongings at all.

After a five hour long struggle, alot of sighing and whining, and a self-pitying stop at Starbucks, I'd had enough. So with my pug lamp under one arm, Geoffery the elephant under the other, and a bag sprouting coat hangers slung across my shoulder, I protested tearily on the corner of Queens Road West until a cab driver took pity and agreed to drive me around the corner.

Well, I imagine pity and fear for my sanity had something to do with it. Although, thrusting a $50 note into his hand and stating an address no more than 20 seconds away probably played a factor too.