Moving house has got to be one of the most annoying, traumatic and anxiety inducing things you can do. Am I right? I don’t mean to brag but I think I may be somewhat of an expert in the pain and misery of moving house. I’m about to move for the 24th time in my lifetime.
The list of things to do is endless…removalists, packers, pet care, pantry clean out, fridge defrosting, laundry loads, a full garage than can no longer be ignored, gas and electricity and god forbid you have no internet on the first night in a new home…because that means no Netflix and then you’d actually have to talk to each other (because let’s face it, you’ll be ignoring all the unpacking that needs doing!).
This move is the first time that I’ve had to book not just removalists but a specialist treadmill relocation person! Can you believe it? I cannot move the thing on my own. I cannot pay the professionals to do it and I have had to find a strapping lad who specializes in just such a task. There are businesses that actually move gyms for you. Not that I have a whole gym, I have 28, I don’t need a gym!
Pretty much the only thing I haven’t had to consider in this move is 28. Because it’s Pret-a-porter. Good to go. Anywhere. Anytime.
So here’s my story of this, my 24th house move… which is happening in two weeks. So you can expect another moving post about the trauma I’ll experience then too…’moving post’…see what I did there? 🙂
You know that old adage about buying the worst house in the best street so you live amongst it and plan to fix it up? Well that’s kinda my life. Except we rent that house. And today that house was sold to developers – foreign investors if my naked eye isn’t jumping to too many stereotype assumptions.
For that last five years we have loved our home. Sure, it’s someone else’s house but it was our home. We made it that way. We put pictures on the wall, we hosted backyard BBQs and dinner parties on our lounge room floor and binge watched the latest Netflix anything and brought our new baby home to this house. Her first home. Where she learned to crawl, walk and talk. Where we baby-proofed to within an inch of its life, where we tackled the sleepless first year (or four!) and where we learned (pretty quickly) how to be parents.
This is the home where we started our business and where I had three pregnancies but got just one baby. This is the home that we returned to after trips overseas for holidays and to help ailing family and this is the home we took sanctuary in when life and other curve balls came flying too fast.
In five short years we’ve lived a lifetime in this house. This house, that was never ours but that we loved, warts and all.
With a child now nearing school age we decided it was time to tackle the next big issue…which school? So, with that in mind I broached the renter’s biggest fear. Maintenance. What of it for our warty old house that had a leaky roof and an outside laundry and a back door that exited onto a death trap. Would these things get fixed? Did the owner have long-term plans?
Well yes, they did want to fix them. That is until they saw the bill from the myriad of tradies who quoted on all the work that was required to make this house safe again. Then they didn’t. With developers circling it didn’t take much for the seed to be sown and before we knew it there was a ‘for sale’ sign at the front of our home.
Mercifully, as it was packaged for destruction we weren’t burdened with the endless weekends of having our home open for strangers to trundle through and look through our smalls. Sizing the place up for their own memory making. No, the people that came to look at our home while it was on sale just looked at the land and the proximity to the local street life and the train station neighbour and the rich looking lifestyle that would be afforded to those who lived in the soon to be imagined 10-apartment building that could be raised from the ashes of this clinker brick, two-story art deco house.
So we were spared our home and our life being open for inspection. Thankfully.
I’m sad that houses like our home are so readily destroyed for progress and to meet growing demand in suburbs like the one we accidentally called home. This house where the floors creak, the paint peels and the drains smell. Where the electrical wiring blinkers frequently and the drafts are constant with the windows that rattle incessantly and then inexplicably stick. This house that deserved some love and attention to make it whole again, but sadly, there’s no money to be made in sentimental real estate acquisitions.
And that’s OK because when the auctioneers gavel called “SOLD” it didn’t matter to us. We’ve made our memories and they belong to us. Not the house. We’ll take them with us, to our next home. Which, no doubt I’ll get just as sentimental about. But that OK. Memories are made of this.
And despite living in 24 homes in my 45 years, I’m still a sentimental homebody and I don’t plan on changing any time soon.
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