You probably noticed that I didn’t write anything about the Royal Wedding. OK. Maybe you didn’t, but I did.
When I was a little girl I used to think I actually had a chance of getting married to Prince William. Every little girl wants to marry a Prince and I used to think it could be me. Really. I’m not sure how down he would have been with me working at VICE, the binge drinking and my strop habit, but still in my 12 year old mind I totally could have been Kate.
But the biggest reason why I was absent from my beloved television last Friday was this: I MOVED HOUSE. I wouldn’t call myself a royalist (though I probably am, I bloody love the royals) and I was really excited about the wedding of the century, but for some reason I booked in our move for that day. It seemed logical at the time and in all fairness the M1 was a dream, but really, what was I thinking?!
I saw Kate emerging from the Goring and walking halfway down the aisle (the removal men finished, I had to leave), and then we paused for the first kiss on the balcony (lunchtime, bacon sandwiches). Aside from that my royal wedding exposure was confined to the radio. In a nutshell: waaaah wah wah. I was sad.
And on to the move. Why is it that you always have more stuff than you remember?
We had crates of it. And it was EVERYWHERE.
It didn’t help that we’ve downgraded from a three bedroom place to two bedrooms, i.e. we no longer have a room solely for ‘miscellaneous crap’. But my work for IKEA has paid for itself in storage tips. Most useful contract ever, basically.
Here’s the kitchen ‘before’ shot right before the removal men arrived. I’m sure the ‘after’ will follow roughly 3 months from now.
This herb drawer is crying out from my OCD tendancies.
The first morning family cuddle.
Elfie, about to check out the new neighborhood:
So far, so good.
So far, no broadband (iPhone tethering FTW).