Moving house is apparently one of the most stressful things you can do.
One night while I was shifting the wardrobe around the bedroom to try and place it somewhere where if it was going to disintegrate due to shoddy workmanship, it wouldn’t kill me in my sleep in the process, I threw up in my hands. Just threw up. In my hands. It might have been due to SmartPrice tea, or it might have been the stress: but whatever it was there it sat, all brown and lumpy and acid-smelling. In my hands. In my new house.
At first I was impressed that I had managed to catch it all and not get it on the carpet, but then I realised that I was holding sick in my hands. I ran to the bathroom but failing to open the door with my chin, ran into the kitchen instead. The sink was full of pots, but my hands were full of sick and as I wasn’t going to be able to open any windows with my feet to throw it onto the general public, into the sink it all went.
I then spent two hours cleaning sick off my new pots, before realising that I still needed to move the wardrobe. The 6ft beanbag tripped me up on the way to the wardrobe and I spent the rest of the night blacked out on the bedroom floor, hands vaguely still smelling of sick.
Moving house is apparently one of the most stressful things you can do. I concur.
It’s a pity the wardrobe didn’t kill me.