Three years ago, I was waiting for a car to turn up outside of my parents, staring at the sky wondering if the rain was going to stop at any given point.

Three months ago, I was insecure in my new job so Girlpants took me out for dinner to celebrate and up the confidence.

Three days ago, in wild panic, I went out to buy a very special card with lovely golden pattern on the top.

Three hours ago, I gave Girlpants the very special card.

Three minutes ago, he pointed out that the lovely golden pattern on the very special card wasn't really a nice pattern as I had first believed whilst quickly perusing in a rush. It was a lovely golden flowerly script which you can only read at a certain angle. A golden flowerly script that said "To my wife on our anniversary"
Opps! Well...the thought was there I suppose.

Happy anniversary Girlpants.
Mwah!

Sitting down at ye old parents for the family meal, the rug ruts had departed for new layers of lego cast across the living room floor, whilst father had sat in his favourite chair and was watching Antiques Roadshow at full blast which left BIL running the bath for the rugrats and Talkative Sis, Mother, Girlpants and I sat around the table for a quiet chat and the remnants of dessert.

Talkative Sis (tucking in) - Mmmm - I love rhubarb crumble

Sim - Yuck

Talkative Sis - Why don't you like it? Tis yummy

Sim - Maybe because it's sour or because it's like eating my cat*.
Or maybe because Snowy and Blackie** were buried under the rhubarb bush...

I think that the deathly silence should have given it away. Or the fact that Talkative Sis suddenly pushed away her plate from which she had been greatly enjoying and looked slightly green. I had performed a classic trick usualy demonstrated by Girlpants, only I had managed to go one level deeper. I had grossed out Talkative Sis to the point she couldn't speak.

In my defence, I did try to cover it up by claiming blackcurrant bushes or even the roses in the front were the real havens for our childhood companions, but she was having none of it. No more rhubarb crumble or pie for Talkative Sis. She's sworn off the dish which has now greatly disappointed mother as the plant blooms under her watchful gaze and now the only one of her daughters who once liked the dish has now declared it off-limits as she now realises that there's more to loam than plain dirt. For alas, her naivety is now shattered as she now knows that our childhood pets are buried under those bushes.

Despite pointing out to all that we only named our cat that name as she is essentially stupid and that the rhubarb plant is mainly composed of poisonious oxalic acid which killed many a poor person during WWII as the then Government recommended the leaves as a form of cabbage, I feel from my parents reactions that I may just possibly be going to hell. Admittedly this was a given when you take into account my Catholic upbringing with Original Sin and all of that. Lets face it - I was born with guilt. But I'll probably be begging for forgiveness from les parents until either their wills give in or when Talkative Sis starts eating her desserts once more.

I may now have an inkling of how Prince Philip feels whenever he goes abroad...

* Rhubarb is the name of one of our cats
** Our childhood guinea pig pets, Snowie, Blackie and Tufty

Men!

You ask them to pop out for some moo juice as you've ran out at home and you expect to see milk in a couple of glass pint jars. In this case, the grin should have given it away. That and the dirty big dented transit van with two big burly men who needless to say, you would ne'er want to meet down a dark alley.

But my man came home that day with a doopy grin smeared over his face. Girlpants was pleased. He had ventured forth into the city on a Saturday and had walked away unscathed and had returned victorious from an afternoon of shopping with a small purchase.

That ladies and gents is a King Chair. A throne even, which is rather apt given the hole in the centre.
Carved from the single root of an uprooted teak tree from a sustained forest. With a matching table for drink, remote and paraphernalia.

Someone. Hand the man a tiara.

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.