Why I think moving sucks

I blog a lot about the present, but come with me on a quick delve into life before we left Sydney.

Most days of my Sydney life, I woke up at 6am. That's on the days I didn't wake up at 5am to get some work done before I left for... work...

By 7am, I was at the bus stop, waiting for the 7:06am bus, which would get me into work by 7:50am. Once there, I would power-work until 8:45am, which was when other people arrived and I had my daily conference call with the other states to examine the news.

At 6:45pm I would leave work to get the 6:55pm bus, getting home around 7:45pm.

Don't get me wrong - I actually really liked my job. I just hated the fact that, when I moved into my place, I was working in a totally different job in a totally different part of the city. My house was a 15 minute commute from that job, but a minimum one hour commute from the last job I had in Sydney.

I gave up my job two weeks before we moved in order to pack us up and ship us out. Mr Moi was working up to the last minute... or so we hoped.

I've previously alluded to how much crap I chucked out when we left Sydney. Part of our chucking out strategy involved putting our rubbish into our neighbour's bin.

We did this for about six weeks before we moved. Not only that, but he helped us clean up our yard, trim back the hedges and basically keep our place under control when we were too preoccupied to do otherwise.

To thank him, we bought him a carton of beer. Two weeks before we moved (two days after I'd finished up work), we took it round to his place.

After living in our place for two years, we'd never actually been around to his place. He was a nice guy, but not how you'd expect. He was about 60 years old, with long grey hair and a long ponytail, and in his yard was the most amazing cactus garden I had ever seen (remember, cactus isn't all that common en masse in Australia).

So we took him around this carton of beer to say thanks, and in typical Aussie fashion, he invited Mr Moi and I to stay on and share some beers. Knowing we had to go out for a farewell dinner later that afternoon, Mr Moi took it easy on the beers, while I went rather... hard.

After about four beers (in... maybe... 90 minutes), Mr Moi said it was time to go. And it probably was - from where we were sitting on our neighbour's verandah, we could see it'd gotten very dark. And I was a little tipsy...

Mr Moi led the descent from the verandah, followed by Neighbour, followed by moi. They walked across his driveway, and I followed, traipsing a little as one does when they're a little... happy.

What I didn't see in the dark was an exposed drain, about 10 centimetres across. And that explains why I was so surprised when my foot got caught in the exposed drain. And why I didn't really understand what was going on when I fell on the ground, first on my knees, then my wrist, and then my head.

All that really registered what that I couldn't hear anything.

I stumbled to my feet rather unsteadily, and both Mr Moi and Neighbour were talking to me. I could see their mouths moving. Too bad I had no hearing, not even a high-pitched buzz.

I stood up. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just can't hear anything. Mr Moi? I can't HEAR anything. What are you saying? I can't HEAR you." Saying this, I stumbled up the inclined driveway. Halfway up, I looked at Mr Moi, and I looked at Neighbour. I thought they were overreacting. And as I looked at them, I tried to move my feet and body to propel me up the incline.

Instead, my body froze and I fell backwards down the hill. I remember this as though I was watching myself in slow motion.

The good news is, my head hit Mr Moi's shin, not the concrete. The other good news is that, after I woke from my faint, I could hear again.

To cut a long story a little bit shorter, we went to the hospital where x-rays determined that I hadn't broken my wrist or my arm. However, it was badly sprained, very swollen around the joints, and I was on some heavy duty painkillers. (I actually couldn't straighten my arm until a month later).

The other bad news was that I couldn't pack a box or move a piece of furniture to save my life. Heck, I couldn't even bring a fork to my mouth to eat. I certainly couldn't drive to the thrift store, the dump or to pick Mr Moi up from work.

So Mr Moi was forced to go AWOL from work. He ended up doing all the moving while I sat back and gave directions.

So, what was so bad that had me dilapidated during the most crucial moving phase? Well, here are some pictures of the spoils. And let's say that photos don't do it justice.

The bruises on my knees

The bruise on my wrist. What you can't really see clearly is the green bruise that settled in the middle of my palm.

A knee close up. So painful, I couldn't even pull down my pyjama pant leg.

And that's why moving totally sucks...



PS And in case you're wondering, the beer was Coopers. Strong beer, that Coopers... Until you move to Ukraine.