Pi$$ed-off Packing Mama
I’m staring vacantly at the contents of the wardrobe. Who owns all these clothes? They can’t be mine, I can’t fit my right thigh through most of them.
My size 10 wedding dress, clad in polythene, stands upright commanding centre stage and seemingly awaiting a marital ovation. I sigh in resignation and clip a feathered fascinator to my greasy locks and start to remove several forlorn dresses from the plastic hangers and dump them into an open bin bag.
“Don’t go throwing everything away because you can’t be arsed packing,” yells my husband from the lounge.
A vivid image of a bubble wrapped torso being hurled from the balcony suddenly springs to mind but I shake the thought away. We haven’t got enough of the popping packaging to even finish the glassware never mind a 6ft struggling spouse.
I sigh again. I hate moving. No that’s a lie, I love moving I just hate packing.
My son walks in and stares blankly at the bin bags, then honours me with speech.
“Next time we move can we pay someone to pack for us? This looks like the leftovers from a crappy car-boot sale, what’s to eat?” I stare at my gangly offspring; aged 14 and still completely unaware that we are due to move apartments in just 5 days.
The phone suddenly rings. It’s the estate agent.
“Hi Carmen, any news?”
“Hello Paola, can you send me a video of your flat when it’s empty, including the locks”
“Why do you need a video of the locks? We’re not going to come back and start squatting!!!” I roll my eyes and wait for a reply. When none is forthcoming I ask the same question I’ve asked a hundred times this week.
“So, have you been able to contact the police and ask them if we are actually ALLOWED to move this weekend because I’m going to be a bit pissed off if I’m thrown in jail en route to the notary.” Silence echoes down the phone. Our conversation is seemingly complete.
“Marcus! They’ve hung up on me again,” I yell into the lounge and my voice echoes around the empty room.
Our Spanish estate agent is apparently more than happy to take the 6% commission on the sale of our property but appears unwilling to take any responsibility regarding our transition from A-B, albeit being less than a mile between destinations.
The lack of control sits uneasily astride my nomadic feet. Visions of S.W.A.T teams descending on us as we load Tupperware into the removal van suddenly fills my overactive and under stimulated brain. Lockdown has disabled us all from the most simple of tasks and I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes. Self pity isn’t a welcome companion when airports are being used as morgues around the globe and I remind myself of this as I hurl our future into an assortment of cardboard boxes.
A comforting hand touches my shoulder, disrupting the unwelcome thoughts cascading around my frazzled brain.
“‘The Noodle bar downstairs has just opened, I heard the shutter go up. You fancy something hot and spicy? I’m sure they will deliver, even if we do only live 4 metres away.”
To be continued… Day… Night… Who Knows?
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