Apologies in advance for all the feelings in this one, thankfully you are reading this in electronic form otherwise you would see the tears on the page. I am writing this on the evening of moving into my new flat and I am overtired, hungry and cresting the rainbow of emotions about living by myself for the first time. I wrote last week about why I was moving and how damn excited I was for it, but the closer I got to M-Day there was just so much going through my head.
First up I should say I’m not an idiot, I am a spreadsheet loving queen who is entirely capable of paying bills, ordering furniture, changing lightbulbs*, negotiating a lease and ordering groceries. I know I got this, at least the analytical part of my brain knows this. Apparently my analytical brain and my heart don’t regularly catch up over coffee.
The week leading up to the move I had the stunning combination of being seriously busy at work and getting about three hours sleep a night because I had so much anxiety about the new flat. Of course none of it was rational worry, I was waking up at 3am to manically google how to attach a leaning shelf to the wall. Or where to buy the best succulent arrangement. Or if Ikea had changed their delivery terms since the last time I looked. Or if H&M home had any wooden trays because the metal ones just didn’t work for me.
Nothing rational, all silly things that were covering how nervous I was at doing this by myself.
If this was NZ my parents would have shown up bright and early with takeaway coffee and started loading stuff into a car. Any issues with the new flat they would have been there justifying the decisions I made (or telling me to not be quite such a bitch when John Lewis couldn’t find my new address). I know it is one of the sacrifices I made for living in London, but my god I wish Mum and Dad were here with their amazing combination of humour and practicality to help me through it. Not that anything would have been fundamentally different (as I said before, I know that I got this), but I might have had slightly more sleep. And I might not have accidentally put a screw through my foot**.
I did have bright spots, bits that reminded me what I was missing in this emotional rainbow was other people to ground me. The first was that I had booked Kiwi Movers to cart all my boxes. The original deal was that they would move me and I would mention them on the blog as payment. But fuck me if I don’t get a little teary about these guys. It was just so much like living at home and having friends help with the move. Nothing was a drama for them, they just turned up with a familiar accent (one Kiwi and one Brit) said ‘sweet as’ and got to it. It was so damn chilled out, they just lifted and joked and it was easy. All my stressing about my mountain of boxes not fitting in the van were groundless, these guys were tetris masters.
I have now used a ‘man and van’ to move four times in London and every other time has been hard work. Normally it’s a driver who doesn’t actually want to lift anything, is hard to communicate with (either a language barrier or they were just a dickhead) and all up it was like they were doing me a favour. But these kiwi mover guys just smiled and got on with the job. Sorry I know that saying how much I love the movers and they remind me of home is not a normal ‘review’, but I warned you I was overtired at the start.
The second part of the move that I didn’t realise would have quite such an impact is Lex and Aaron. I may or may not have convinced them to move into the same building as me, the apartment one up and one across. Instead of thinking of it as advanced stalking, I choose to believe it is a mutually beneficial ‘access to the gin collection’ in exchange for ‘access to the nail polish collection’ arrangement.
Anyway we both moved in on the same day, and just as I got to the ‘if I have to face any more unpacking I might dissolve into a puddle of tears’ stage – Lex and I decamped onto the balcony for gin. Then once Aaron was home for work we headed up to their flat for takeaways and prosecco. Every other time I have moved flat in London the day has finished with me sleeping in a half made bed, focussing on all the shit I had to ask the landlord to fix and exhausted already at the thought of the boxes I had to face the next day. But this time? This time it was celebration with friends, it was a cheers and watching dogs on Youtube; it was what I would have had if I had been at home with my family.
I’m not quite sure what the point of this blog is. To be fair that statement could apply to this post or to Runawaykiwi in general. I think it is that I want to remember that people make the difference. Weather it is a friendly mover or friends to commemorate the day with, the people can make you feel like it is not all on you. I love my flat, love it. And as predicted I am entirely capable of any random house things that have been thrown my way. Moving is always stressful no matter where you are, but you don’t have to do it alone.
*Dad if you are reading this I know you had to skype me through the last lightbulb change I did, but I swear I learned from it and I am 99% sure I won’t buy the wrong lightbulbs and electrocute myself this time.
** Nope I didn’t screw too far when putting the leaning shelf together, that would be far too normal. I was looking at a framed picture of Gandalf the Grey, trying to decide if he should live next to my gin, tripped on my Moroccan poof and landed on a screw that I had left on the floor. A painful reminder that Gandalf is one of the most powerful wizards around and should be respected as such.