Thursday, December 13, 2007


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 Australia - books, underwear.
  • 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!)


J said...

It sounds like you are dealing with last minute moving panic. I for one am filled with admiration for your intrepid activities. I am sure you have everything covered and all will be well.

In other news, you know the rats you reported in Hainault Street by the railway line? Public protection gave me a message for you today, to say they are laying bait boxes. So you see, you DID make a difference...!

Andrew said...

If we don't hear from you again, and I don't mean forever, but until you are in comfort somewhere, the best of luck to you. I am hoping you will post from India.

That's So Pants said...

Hi J

Pretending we don't know each other is out of the question now. Thank you for the other news. The pants motto - 'no job too small or hideous'. Give my love to Ilford.

Hi Andrew

Thanks too - I will try. I have to work out how to do pictures. I'm sure a young person will help me. That's the benefit of going on a backpacking tour.



Reading the Signs said...

"The pants motto - 'no job too small or hideous'" - now you tell us this, just as you are about to leave the country!

So the unconditional love thing isn't quite doing the trick with Barney? Earplugs, then, or tranquillisers (for him), but divorce should only be a last resort.

It is not just you, it is definitely harder to get anything done now. But, as my dear Grandma used to say, "be heppy, things can only get vorse." That's cheered you up, hasn't it?

Keep us posted.


That's So Pants said...

Hi Signs

Cryogenic suspension guys are coming today - pretending to be piano movers (shhh!!!)

I blame the risk averse culture. First thing anyone asks you if you're moving is 'is there a lift?'. Have you ever heard London referred to as 'City of Bungalows?' I think not.



Dame Honoria Glossop said...

You should have come to a Weinnacht market instead.

p.s. Hope you can keep us posted from time to time.

That's So Pants said...

Your Dameship

Would that you had ordered it and I could have gotten out of the packing.



phil said...

"An inexplicable penchant for changing utilities suppliers."

I love it. Modern living in one simple example, a metaphor for a cornucopia of grief. Except cornucopiae are meant to be good things aren't they? Oh well.

Oh, and continuing expressions of good luck to you from Chateau (and Pied a Terre) VVB.

Quink said...

I thought I'd wait a day or two before commenting so I could say the more cheerful: "Now it's Saturday, are you glad it's all over?"

That's So Pants said...

Hi Phil

Thanks. H hope never to have to change utilitise again. I have trouble enough rememberin to change my underwear.

Hi Quinkie

Oh yes. Blogging later bouat it all. I've just settled into my house sit. Let me get a bottle of wine and an Indian takeaway and I'll be right with you.