I’m writing this at 3.30am on the day of our move. I haven’t slept tonight yet, because I’ve got too much going round in my head, so at the moment I’m facing moving home on no sleep at all. Chris’ Dad is due to arrive here to start the move in four hours. Fuck.
I’m feeling really stressed, and at the moment I don’t want to move at all. When I collected our keys today, there were lots of little things that I didn’t like about the new flat, things I hadn’t noticed before, and although they’re pretty much all quite minor they made me freak out a bit. There are just various bits of it that are quite shabby, or are broken, or weren’t how I was expecting, and it made me want to cling to what I have already simply because it’s familiar and safe.
You could hear people clumping around through the ceiling too, and that upset me a bit. I wanted the new place to be quiet, to feel like I was away from other people. A stupid hope really, considering it’s a flat in busy Brighton. Chris said the clumping noise probably won’t be as noticeable once we’re not standing in a silent, empty flat, with no furnishings to absorb any of it. He’s probably right, but my head’s too all over the place at the moment to agree.
A huge, huge worry that we both now have on top of this is that our brand new sofa, that we have ordered at huge expense to arrive on Friday, will not fit down the stairs to the property. I had considered the doorways when I ordered it, and they should be fine, but I had no recollection at all of how narrow the stairs are. The bedroom windows bow out into them as you go down, and so for a long stretch they are literally only 65cm across. And that is really rather fucking narrow for large furniture items to pass through. I’ve even had to dismantle our dining table this evening before we move it, because I couldn’t see how else we’d get it down there.
What the fuck do I do if the sofa won’t fit? What will the delivery men do? Will they just dump it on the pavement and go? I’ve read things about sofa delivery men doing that. You’re meant to have measured, if it doesn’t fit it’s your fault not theirs, they don’t do returns just because you’re too much of a cock to have worked out if you can get the sofa inside or not.
Chris and I are clinging to the hope that with the packing off and the cushions off, the sofa will be just about wigglable through the gap. It might, it very nearly might, but it’s an unusual shape and I’m really not convinced. I’m so scared we’ve wasted all that money.
The people living there before us had two sofas in their front room. How did they get them in and out? They weren’t such an odd shape though, and maybe the arms could come off or something. I don’t know. I’m really scared.
I was meant to be at home on my own when the sofa comes on Friday, but I’m really hoping Chris can take the day off with me, even if he has to pull a sicky, so I don’t have to deal with it on my own if it won’t fit. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
I’m so tired, and so stressed, and so disappointed not to be excited about the flat. I hope it feels better and nicer once we’re in and our furniture is in (if any of it fits). Chris is sad that I’m not pleased with it, and I’m dragging him down. One day he’ll leave me for being such hard work, and such a miserable fuck. I need to hold on to that thought and bury my stress deep down inside me. We’re moving, and I can’t stop it, and we’re moving for good reasons, and the place should be nice once we’re in and we’ve made it nice. We’re moving. But at the moment I really really don’t want to.