So that was the bulk of the move. Half a dozen trips and a couple more in the making and we may just be there. Meanwhile, the cats are traumatised and pissing every other hour in the bathtub but then we comfort ourselves in the knowledge that at the very least they know where the little girls’ room is.

There was, as all and any moves, casualties of war. I'm afraid that I must report that there were huge chasms carved into the front living room floor as metal wheels were accidentally dragged across them (Girlpants). There were also substantial dings in the dining table as it was upturned on the new floor without slipping on its protective sleeve (moi), whilst the walls took a substantial whack from the wardrobe (male types). I must also announce the demise of the washing machine. Girlpants was devastated as he's the one who has joy of the laundry run in the house, but alack alas, there was no way it was making a recovery after bouncing off the trolley onto the pavement, rolling over it's front onto it's back, waving it's glass door in the air in it's final death throws. On the plus side pour moi, it was on its way out, so it wasn't so much in that I've lost a washing machine but that I have a huge new home and got to go shopping. I gained much delight in walking into a national electrical chain commenting on how silver is the new white and whether it had a matching dryer in the same hue.

Gets the male molars grinding everytime...

And in the back of my mind is the fact that the old house still stands albeit alone without the cats dashing through the door and without a sold sign emblazoned across it, so we've face the fact that maybe it's time to start looking at rentals.

 But whilst being nostalgic about the old, to the rest of us, the new house is big, shiny and spanking new. The ground floor has stripped floorboards which enables anyone in the cellar or dungeon as the rugrats tend to call it, to overhear anything said upstairs, which basically means that should I wish to gossip without Girlpants eavesdropping, then I should scallyarse back upstairs. Saying that however, the only thing he would have heard this last week were the gnashing of my teeth as the withdrawal from the net and blogs kicked in with enormous hot and cold sweats. Two weeks without the ability to browse post or even email at my own leisure. Girlpants has dealt with his withdrawal in his own way - he went out with his manbag satchel and shopped. And once I can find the connector for the camera in box of leads in the midst of this carnage, I'll might even be able to show you what he came home with...

So the move has started and my feet burn and ache. Which is amazing as I was only lifting things as opposed to running a marathon. However, as part of the move, I'll now be offline from anything up to two weeks, which will suit Girlpants to the ground as he may just get more attention. But given the state of the new house as we left it tonight, it may not be the type of attention he either craves or probably deserves, as floorboards are cracked, wiring needs to be redone and I could distinctly see sunlight though the slates in the loft.

Meanwhile, the tropical fish have appeared to have survived the move initally but there may be changes when we go back in the morning. There are more big things to transport in the morning and there is yet another tank to move, plus two feisty fat cats who will in doubt start riots in the avenue before the month is out. A marvellous way in which to meet the neighbours, as I discovered as Girlpants attempted a maneovour in a tail lift truck and promptly causing tail backs in both directions as he became wedged in our drive, the neighbours brand new car and the pillar between properties.

On a different note, was I the only one who found the BBC testcard clown doll sinister??

We now have a moving date so are in the process of packing up gité de la haskell-dowland and are on our way to the manor house. Not that we could afford a manor house what with British prices for the south-west, however it's bigger and older than our current home so my ideas of grandeur are kicking in with great effect. Smoking jackets and decanted port are at the ready, however whilst I like the idea of the new house, I hate the notion of packing!

Just how many books can you accumulate in just three years? I have an inkling of an idea now so am now rethinking the idea of building up a library in the annex study. Don't even start on the question of clothes as I will have the proverbial field day about a womans right to choose, which would explain why men take a small overnight bag for a weekend, whilst a lady is armed with a suitcase, half a dozen change of clothes and four pairs of shoes. Whilst a mans right is his castle, a lady has her wardrobe which would be protected at all costs with kitchen implements at the ready.

Packing up the house has made me realise just how much stuff we have. PC's, gadgets, glasses etc. It makes me wonder if we're the only household in Britain with five big boxes of dvd's packed up and counting?? Some still have their wrappers on and the amount of dried food I've found that expired months ago makes me wince at the waste as I cook and mash it up for the local birds.

The harshest thing about moving is missing certain things. Like sky, or tiVo, which Girlpants is threatening to leave behind a couple of weeks or even broadband which is going to be difficult to port. With addiction to email and the internet is now a recognised psychological condition, I am not looking forward to the notion of being consigned to the internet wilderness for two weeks. Purgatory doth live in devon, and it may just make me pull my hair out.

For the last few years, I've been growling under my breath at old historical buildings in my city being torn down for new developments. Plymouth is a very old port which has the Mayflower Steps, the Royal Citadel and the old Elizabethan Barbican and I really do belive that you should keep and maintain historical buildings and try to maintain some air of Olde England about. Especially as the oldest part of Plymouth, the Barbican, is now the place to go for a subway, coffee or for drinks on a night out.

Admittedly, my homecity was bombed severally during WWII - second worst to London apparently, so a lot of the old city which American visitors now come to see in homage to the Pilgrim Fathers has now gone. Post-war, there were a number of quick builds which didn't really have any thought put into it's architecture, but they did make brutal statements to observers, including the local civic centre, which now the council wants to pull down and gave the go ahead for demolition last week.

Only now they can't.
As offficially English Heritage has granted this building Grade II status, which made me chortle so hard when I read this first thing in the day, that I fell off the bed.

And before you ask I swear on all I hold dear, that I didn't petition the English Heritage...
But I wish I did now! Not for the extra tax - just for the laugh!

Waking up to Chris Moyles inthe morning is the only thing that can get me out of bed.
People may find him loud, crude and rude, but he's far better than some other early morn DJ's. Plus he 'paid' for my honeymoon.
Brucey bonus!

But his shows for the past couple of mornings have left one tune in my head.
And it just won't go away. For three sodding days...

But at least I'll get some exercise joining in.
Plus he looks a bit like Paul Potts with glasses...

Sim - Happy fathers day dad - what could be the best gift you could wish for?

Father - A grandchild!

Sim - Nuh Narrrhh! Try again.

Father - For someone other than a pip squeak with pipes* to win Britains Got Talent

It's only been on a for a single solitary week, but this reality tv, hailing back to ye olde 80's variety telly, has been uber addictive. I'm loving it as much as Big Brother 8 (although admittedly I have been in mourning since Lesley left). However, the judges inability to see past tiny feet and tiny people and go for the cliche did get on the proverbial t*ts. So tonight, I have been laughing my socks off whilst watching the live final and thinking of my fathers wish. And okay - so it only took several dozen (rather expensive) phone calls to clinche it - but I think I did. And I did it for him. My dad.
That and my sanity as Bessie made my teeth ache...

Roll on the American series!

* I should mentioned that if a grand-rugrat decides to go for next years show, my father reserves the right to support aforementioned rugrat to the end. And slap any one who insults the rugrat with a cold wet haddock.

Double standards? Never...!!?!