My House Doesn’t Like Me!

Well, it’s been a week since our moving out/moving in adventures, and my, what a bundle of fun it’s been.

We’ve had tears, we’ve had a tantrum – more about that later – and we’ve even had tentative excitement about the new house: we think we’re going to like living there! 

A week in, and it’s beginning to feel less like we’ve opened up a franchise of Big Yellow Storage and more like a place fit for habitation.

That said, an entire half of our living room is still choc-a-bloc with unpacked boxes, and the bedrooms and kitchen are only about a quarter done. Our bathroom is smashing, though. 

But there’s one problem that’s even bigger than the fact that my recent life has been dominated by boxes.  I can’t get my front door key to work.

I discovered this on my inaugural attempt last Saturday, when I’d headed ‘home’ after my weeping final exit from our old house. 

Adding insult to injury in a big fat dollop, I had my wedding dress in tow. No way had I been letting that go in the removal van the day before.  

At first, I was quite tickled by the irony of this: had I not been so prissy, my most precious sartorial possession would have been safely hanging in the wardrobe rather than folded up in a bag on the doorstep beside me.

That amusement was pretty short-lived, though.  After about 30 minutes of being stranded outside, my internal mood barometer was firmly pointing towards ‘rage’ – hence the aforementioned tantrum.

Eventually, my husband had to come to my rescue – a mission he accomplished simply by inserting his key into the lock whence the door glided open like a dream.

I’ve had just the one successful attempt since; every other night it’s taken me at least ten minutes of huffing and puffing and contorting myself into odd angles against the doorframe before I’ve been able to get inside.

I’m actually feeling a bit paranoid about it: I don’t think the house likes me.

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• The Unbearable Burden of Leaving (1)
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