Where there are leaves, there's hope - Elegantly head-dressed Wednesday
Pants is at the very end of her elastic, emotionally speaking. Forgive my converting to first person. I want sympathy, and lots of it. I am distraught, seriously. The move is not going well, (Barney, will you shut the fuck up!!). I wish you to know that cyanide commercially available on the internet is not of sufficient strength to dispatch a hybrid, especially one of Barney's indomitable fortitude. I should have worked that one out from the speed at which he turned the tables on the yellow fever.
Whatever possesses hypoallergenic pet manufacturers to persist with conventional selfish genes, I can't imagine. Surely the trade-off for threatening the stability of the global environment by unleashing a potentially lethal cocktail of genetic tutti frutti upon the hearths of the developed world is that all the undesirable characteristics of traditional species are 'designed out'.
I look at Barney and I think, what is the point of you. Barney says he now knows how the Duchess of York feels (except for the whole toe-sucking and being Beatrice's 'mummy-and-best-friendy' thing - which not even Barney is prepared to contemplate).
Christmas, divorce and moving are even more stressful than death for most people. (Arguably, if you're dead, you're no longer stressed, and that's something to look forward to). I chose to do them all at once. Although, having your hybrid pet put into cryogenic suspension doesn't technically count as divorce, I'm sure the personal toll is equivalent. I checked it out thoroughly.
Someone rather creepy from Furriers 4 Justice contacted me because he thought I ought to be entitled to some compensation and wondered whether Barney had a decent coat. I told him I presumed so since a Stella McCartney cashmere blend hooded jacket at £1,495 appeared on my last credit card statement. Since the order was for a size 000 and was placed at 4.15am, I figured it wasn't a panic reflex on my part.
Moving, after eleven years in one place can throw your inner project manager into a major time-frame crisis. I always thought I could accurately predict how long it would take to complete any task. I also laboured under the serious misapprehension that I had hardly any 'stuff'. The three cavernous built-in cupboards at House of Pants have been sleeping Tardii. They conceal items I could never have imagined owning.
These new discoveries have created a massive time lag as I go, 'Barney what the fuck is this?' and Barney goes, 'how the fuck should I know'. Then we have to glare at each other suspiciously until one of us backs down and makes a cup of tea. Then there's the inevitable dilly-dallying over which pile the object I never knew I owned goes into.
There are five piles
- Definitely going to
- books, underwear. Australia
- Not sure - anything that isn't familiar but looks like it might have a purpose.
- Things to give to other people - tennis balls for my downstairs neighbour who's a tennis coach. Freeview box for my friend's son to watch the History Channel.
- Put on Freecycle - virtually anything electrical that I can't get clean - which is most of it.
- Backpack - the things I'll need for the next three months.
What I've noticed the most is that everything is so dirty and it's taking forever to get it all clean. Just as well Barney and I have had our diphtheria shots. (Now that I've decided on the cryogenic suspension, I'm looking forward to waking him up in gentler times. He might have turned into Buck Rogers by then).
The movers are coming tomorrow and I've managed to pack 25 boxes. In my panic, I'm sure to have packed important documents I find I need tomorrow, like bank statements and instructions on how to stop direct debits from being extracted from my account for the rest of my life. Oh, and I finally get around to signing up for online banking, beating down perpetual doubts about the security aspects, only to discover you can't transfer money internationally with it. Sorry? I thought the point of the internet was that it has no international boundaries.
Is it just me or is it so much harder to get everything done now? Maybe people with complex personal lives and an inexplicable penchant for switching utilities suppliers are used to this level of aggravation but it's all new to me. Why is it so difficult for suppliers to comprehend that you are moving house? Aren't we a predominantly transient population these days? Isn't it just a matter of hitting a key?
And then there's the insidious trait of modern city life which dictates 'what's my problem is your problem'. My new neighbour across the hall gave the neighbour underneath his old washing machine. Nice gesture you'd think. It's been sitting outside her front door, blocking the hallway for three weeks. I've left her notes telling her my movers are coming tomorrow. Still it sits there. Tomorrow I'll have to do something about that and live with moving men in my house for two days. They seem nice but they'll ask all sorts of questions I can't answer and I'll have to clean the bathroom tonight, just in case they want to dirty it up again.
Come Saturday, it will all be over. (Barney, will you shut the fuck up!)