We have proper wardrobes now so I can no longer justify using the floor.  We even have a working washing machine.  Oh how I miss the launderette *COUGH*.  In excitement I have done six loads of washing since Saturday.  Probably less excitement, more sheer build up of filthy washing.  Imagine my joy this evening when I spent three hours ironing and could have done another three.

To my utter shame I delivered the children to the OAP Childminder  this morning to find that when they took off their sandals their feet were black … and the last tenant reckons she had professional cleaners in before she moved.  If it is true, which I am willing to bet 1 million pounds that I don’t have on it being false, I hope she didn’t pay them.

My shoes have been sticking to the kitchen and conservatory floor like an early 90′s nightclub carpet.  So bad, that even a mop wouldn’t shift it.  Tomorrow, after work, I shall be mostly on my hands and knees like a Victorian maid scrubbing the bejesus out of the floor.

A Colobus Monkey

Usually when I’m feeling a bit anxious I have the spider dream.

Due to the pre-move stress I expected to be leaping across the bedroom, in the middle of the night, to escape the spiders.

This did not happen.  Not to me anyway.

The night before we moved there was a disturbance.

I woke in the night and instantly knew something wasn’t right. I stretched out to discover The Husband missing.

Suddenly the bedroom light was flicked on and there in the corner of the room was The Husband in his pants looking befuddled.

He was befuddled, and I was blind … at 3.04am.

The following morning he told me that he dreamt he was being chased round our bedroom by Colobus Monkeys.  He was very precise about the species.

Can you imagine what would happen if the Driver family’s nocturnal behaviour was synchronised … there would be the 4 year old snoring like an old man, the 6 year old screaming like she’s having her leg removed with a rusty butter knife, The Husband being chased by Colobus Monkeys and me scrabbling around on the bed shooing the 100 or so spiders away.

Picture by \\Hayley// on Flickr

This house is already full of happy memories.  Birthdays, parties, Watching fireworks in the conservatory with my hands over the 6 year old’s ears, dinner parties, drunken games, football in the garden and sleepovers.

You see this house is my best friend’s house, Teacher Friend Mother of 3′s (TFMo3).  The first time I visited this house was 6 years ago, I sat in the same spot as I write this post, holding my three week old baby with the rest of our NCT members. One was still pregnant.

Moving our things into this house just feels right.  The 6 year old who doesn’t do change is really happy … sleeping in her best friend’s old room.  The dog is snoring, The Husband has installed his MAHOOSIVE TV, the Teenager is texting furtively on her Blackberry and the 4 year old is snoring whilst clutching his plastic sword.

All is as it should be in the new Driver house.

Now, where did I put the gin?

As I’m moving house in four days and, quite frankly, suffering ‘Moving Fatigue’ I’m going to do a condensed version. Except it’s not condensed, it’s a weeks worth of witterings all rolled into one.

On Saturday morning, we got up bright and early leaving The Teenager wallowing in bed.  She was offered the chance to sit between her siblings in the back of a hot car for an hour and turned it down.  We were going sofa shopping.

During our time at the sofa shop, which shall remain nameless to protect both parties, the 4 year old managed to eject himself out of a Shackleton High Back chair, span his sister round and round in seven different spinny chairs, ate two Smartie cookies and emptied the water dispenser all over his t-shirt.  Meanwhile, his sister managed to do the world’s biggest poo in the staff toilet, crawl on her hands and knees throughout the shop shouting “I’m playing hide and seek”, emptied the contents of her cup of water down her leggings and demanded at the top of her voice that “When we have finished in here, can we go over there, to Toys R Arse?”  All this while The Husband was in deep negotiation with Captain Sofa Salesman.

Returning home The Husband went on a mission to get his and the 4 year old’s hair cut and buy some packing tape.  He returned three hours later with two haircuts, some packing tape and the documents to prove he had just bought THE biggest TV for the new house.

During his three hours absence I packed the 6 year old’s room and filled three bin bags with rubbish …  from her room.  I distracted her with the power of a movie.

My Sister arrived to help pack the kitchen and was amazed by how many ramekins The Husband has managed to collect over the past year. The evidence of too many M&S desserts.  She managed to dedicate a whole banana box to them.

That evening we went to  a friend’s house for a dinner party with Teacher Friend Mother of 3 and her husband.  We had great food (Come Dine With Me 10/10). I sprayed the host and my top with tonic water making me look like I had leaking nipples and we discussed cheese fondue, dodgy families, golf, drinking too much and arthritic wanking.

On our way home in the taxi The Husband remembered he had left his wallet at home.  I offered myself up to the elderly taxi driver as a hostage while The Husband ran inside to get some dosh.  The taxi driver dismissed me before he even came back and I stumbled up our path like Billy Connolly muttering something about it being his loss. Loser.

Sunday morning after the regulation ‘soak up all your gin’ bacon bap I visited the launderette for the last time.  For those of you that don’t know, our washing machine died a slow and painful death two months ago.  We didn’t buy a new one because the new house has one.  I thought that my trips to the launderette might be full of drama a la Eastenders.  Sadly the most excited thing to happen to me during the launderette months was an elderly gentleman flashing his freshly washed y-fronts at me.

After the final washathon we went to Teacher Friend Mother of 3′s house for a charity garden party.  There was even a string quartet and scones.  After a sparkling wine, hair of the dog, I was feeling much better.  The children won their bodyweight in sweets on the hoopla and hook-a-duck.

Then we pegged it home to met our friends who had come for a Sunday roast.

We sat and ate the most delicious belly pork amid our packed boxes, struggling for crockery and The Husband swearing about his lack of ingredients and utensils due to his sister in laws amazing packing skills … “Where’s the f*cking potato ricer?!”

A great weekend but far too busy for my liking.

This weekend is the big move, so I may be a tad intermittent. There will be much swearing, cleaning, shouting, sweaty removal men and a large box of ramekins to unpack.

I’ll see you on the other side.

My favourite de-clutter this week was when it came to packing our spice cupboard. Three shelves of spices in various jars … over 100 little jars.

On checking the use by dates I managed to pack around 70 of the jars in the bin. Result. Granted, I’ve never heard of anyone dying of spice poisoning … but I have heard of people putting extra strain on their backs moving uneccesary rubbish.

I packed the playroom last night, shelves of toys, games and books. I managed to get rid of more useless crap there too … under cover of darkness, as the children slept it was placed in the bin.

The 3 year old is still concerned that when we move we shall be leaving all that he holds dear behind … his bed, his books and clothes. I repeatedly tell him that we are taking everything … apart from the cumin seeds that we bought in Morrisons in 2001. Tonight I am going to get him to pack a box full of books from his room so that he starts to realise that they are coming with us … even the ones I hate reading … the ones based on cartoons that make my head ache.

The 4 year old is a mix of emotions, excited that we are moving and that she will have the biggest bedroom … something she reminds her brother of regularly. But also sadness that she will be leaving the only home she remembers so far in her short life.

The husband is limbering up for a day of removals. I keep catching him looking at his vegatable patch wistfully. Whoever gets the house will be met as they open the back door by prize winning cabbages the size of beach balls.

The tadpoles are staying … they now have little legs. Soon they will be hopping off into the sunset … or a cats mouth.

The dog still smells and licks her own bottom. I think we shall be wrapping her in cling film in the new house to stop the moulting.