Remember that guide to moving house I posted about six months ago? The one where I suggested giving your old gaff a lick of paint, handing it over to squatters, or basically do anything to avoid absolute fucking torture of moving house?
Well last week just six months after I vowed to avoid any future moves like the plague, I moved again. For the fifth time in two years. And it was every bit as horrific as expected.
Besides the obvious nightmare of having to pack everything I owned in the world into bin bags, (because, naturally, I threw every single box away last time whilst declaring I was staying put forever) not to mention having to then choose whether to make 27 trips in the car to get them to my new place, or alternatively put my trust in a couple of maniacs in a Ford transit – this move brought another particularly stressful episode to the table.
It started on the Wednesday morning, about an hour and a half before two guys were meant to be coming to pick up our washing machine, and I’d just stepped out of the shower. It wasn’t until that exact moment, as I’m sat in my dressing gown applying a thick orange stripe of foundation across my nose like war paint, that I remembered we needed to drain the washing machine before they picked it up.
Fast forward about fifteen minutes and I discovered that there’s no more refreshing way to start your day than by ripping out a washing machine without turning the water off.
Water was flooding from under the sink; squirting out at force as my fella desperately tried to plug the pipe. To say we were panicking would be a massive understatement. Naturally, I had no fucking idea where to find the switch to turn the water off – and with the boyfriend otherwise engaged trying to slow down the water flow, I decided the only thing to do was to run down to the reception area to see if the on-site plumber could help.
So, with wet hair, a strip of foundation across my nose and nothing but a dressing gown to cover my dignity, I ran the ten minutes to reception – desperately trying not to flash the startled commuters as I dodged between them.
When I got there I discovered, in between gasps and what I thought might be a minor stroke, that the plumber wouldn’t be around until half ten and the receptionist neither knew nor cared how to turn the water off.
The next forty minutes were a blur, but eventually, eventually, (with a minor but significant flood to explain to the landlord later) we figured out how to stop the water.
So, what’s moral of this story? Learn how to turn the water off before you start ripping appliances out of the wall willy-nilly.
Or better yet, don’t move.