Moving

Moving is an odd concept. Packing every object in your life you deem of worth into boxes and transport them from one place to another in the hope that these material things will make the new roof you sleep under resemble something of what you're used to.

Some people can move from place to place with nothing more than a backpack and sleeping bag. I always had the suspicion that I was not the type to travel light, but now I can say with experience that this is definitely not me.

If you're talking as the crow flies (straight line distance), I'm about 300 miles from 'Home'. By roads (and a boat across the Irish sea) it's nearer to 400 miles.

I took two cars full to wheel arch bending capacity, my mum and one of my closest friends and we set off at 10.30pm. I had booked the night ferry from Dublin thinking in all my wisdom that; 1) I would save myself over £100 on the more expensive day ferries, and that 2) we could sleep through the crossing and be ready and refreshed to start out when we docked at 6am for the road portion of the travelling...

The three of us slept a combined total of 45 minutes.

So having not slept since the previous night, we then embarked upon an 8 hour road journey. Let me tell you, there is no amount of coffee can make up for not sleeping an entire night and then travelling. I now understand why my mother hates travelling with a passion.

We stayed at a friends house that night, and after a hearty BBQ we discovered that even a couch with a odd shaped cushion can feel like paradise when you haven't slept for 36 hours.

The next morning I got the keys to my new place and discovered England's love for parking tickets. In the 10 minutes that it had taken for us to be shown around by the estate agent and receive the resident and visitors parking passes, both mine and my friends car had been ticketed.

Luckily we got it sorted. But it did put somewhat of a dark cloud over our heads on what should have been quite an exciting day.

With a little help from the friend who we had stayed with, we unpacked the car with surprising speed. Then it was off to the shopping center to buy an airbed while I waited for my Ikea delivery at the end of the week. After a hectic day of shopping, unpacking, parking officer arguing and cleaning, it was time for a well deserved sit down, pizza and a cold beer. We ate off boxes and decided to decorate our makeshift table with a few odds and ends that could be easily released from their cardboard prisons. If I never see another piece of bubble wrap again it will be too soon.

Three weeks later I'm still moving odds and ends, and there is considerably more furniture, but it has been all entirely less interesting than those first few days. Have you any interesting stories of when you moved house? Any disasters, or happy discoveries?

Sarah 

Introduction

The best ideas always seem to come at the most wildly inappropriate time. Like now for instance. It's 11pm, past the bedtime that I have set myself in this new and strange place where I am the only one around to enforce that bedtime.

Perhaps true genius lies at the bottom of a tired, Netflix saturated brain. More realistically, perhaps I'm just trying to cheat myself into thinking that I'm being productive by finding an ever more complicated way of procrastination.

They say that writers should always write. Well, the land of my creative brain has been experiencing a prolonged period of drought. I haven't written more than a few hundred words of original fiction for what seems like years. It feels like I'm waiting for there to be a 'right time' when in reality no such time exists.

I wanted some way to document my first year as a teacher. I had considered a video blog, then remembered quite swiftly how much of an aversion I have to my own face. So that was quickly pushed aside.

So this is my compromise. To train myself into writing more, I am going to make a written documentation of my journey into the world of working, teaching and pretending to have everything figured out. However, I'm fully ready to admit that I'm not quite there... yet.

This is my first job. My first proper job. I'm living on my own for the first time, in a second floor, one bedroom flat. I did live away from home while at University, but with friends and I always came home at the weekends to present a bag of washing to my mother. Now I am 400 miles away from where I call home, and it's been three weeks since I've seen my parents. The longest I have ever gone without seeing either of them. I'm paying bills and washing my own clothes and have bought my very first couch.

I'm not entirely sure how often I'm going to write, or whether I'll have a regular structure to what I talk about but I've made the first step and it's a strange and unexpected journey that's ahead of me. If the only person who ever reads it is me, 5 years from now, I guess that would be okay. But I would prefer some company.

Wish me luck.

Sarah


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