One of the weird rituals of modern life is moving house:
- You put all your belongings into dozens of boxes and turn a comfortable home into a storehouse.
- You anxiously watch the removers loading the boxes on a lorry wondering whether you will ever see your stuff again.
- At the new residence you try frantically to make sure that the hundreds of boxes (Where on earth did all those extra boxes come from?) end up in the correct room. At the end your new home looks like storehouse, too.
- You spend the next few weeks of your life with moving around boxes, searching them and never finding what you are actually looking for.
- After years you are finally down to a few boxes that need to be unpacked. The memory of the hassle and pain has faded and you become bold: you decide to move again.
The last few days Silke and I went through this ritual again. We were lucky (this time) and things didn’t go too bad. Our new dishwasher hasn’t been delivered so far and British Telecom took their time to get our A-DSL working. Besides that we are happy though exhausted. And we hope that this was the last move … at least for several years.