question of the weekend: Moving house: awful thing, or the worst thing ever?
Today, I pack up my crap and make a small move from Croydon, land of Sarah Jane Smith and bloody Martin Smith, to Morden, where the shadows lie. (No, no, it’s really very nice. I hope.) I swear to God, packing up and closing down my New York apartment of eight years was no more work than trying to figure out how I’d accumulated so much crap over the course of a mere year (and with no storage space to boot) and how I was going to cram it into as few bags as possible.
Okay, I exaggerate. But only a little.
Moving house: awful thing, or the worst thing ever?
Please share your moving horror stories here. If you have any fairy tales, I’m sure we’d all love to hear them, because we’ll never have heard anything like them before.
(If you have a suggestion for a QOTD/QOTW, feel free to email me. Responses to this QOTW sent by email will be ignored; please post your responses here.)
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