MOVING TIMES

Sometimes, in fact quite often, I wish I could have been born fragile, petite and preferably blonde. Such a woman could luxuriate in her femininity and surely wouldn’t be expected to carry a sofa on her head. Such a tiny, gentle creature would never have the words “give us a hand with this wardrobe” lobbed at her from the top of the stairs. Now is one of those times: being 5’8 and broad of shoulder is definitely a disadvantage in times of a house move.

The last few days must be the longest of our lives. Relentless furniture carrying, box packing, cleaning…well, we’ve all been there. Moving is hell and rather like childbirth: just as labour begins for the second or third time you want to shout “Oh no, oh my God, I remember what it’s like now… Stop! I’ve changed my mind.”

The children are thrilled and excited, rediscovering treasures from the backs of radiators, as we clear up. I, on the other hand, have gone into a decline. The full extent of the junk that we have accumulated over the years is laid out on the drive for all to see. I want to shed my possessions and join a Buddhist family retreat. For example, I have an entire drawer full of make-up some of which I have owned since I was in my twenties. The truth of the matter is the most I ever wear is mascara and tinted moisturiser. Only now, as my lips appear to be receding into my face, am I considering the regular use of lipstick. Why then am I the proud owner of twelve remarkably similar shades of plum?

The children too have so many toys it is shameful. How could we have let them have so much when others have so little? How many cuddly toys do they need for goodness sake? Should we have refused them more and would they be better, kinder, wiser children as a result? My whole being yearns for the pure and untainted simplicity of bygone days. The Father of the Children thinks I must be on mind-altering drugs. He hasn’t told me to shut up yet, but I think he’s quite close to it. He seems to be avoiding conversation now, not even asking for help with the kitchen table as I pass, he just says ‘hup’. I dutifully pick up one end as I ask whether we should try a few months without a TV. I can tell he can’t be bothered to reply; he has a point, I did make him sit through the Bafta’s last night – hardly life enhancing viewing.

Of course, we shall never live in a monastery. We’ll never know what it’s like to live a life where all we are allowed is one holy book and a robe each. The reality being that we do like to own most of the stuff we have. But somehow it does seem essential to slough off the junk. So, like the phoenix, I shall rise from the dust and Lego in my Marigolds and today I will fill ten sacks for the charity shop. I shall emerge transformed. Lighter of spirit and cleansed of unnecessary burdens but not, I fear, a Kylie-sized blonde ready to drape myself helplessly on a chaise longue. Which is a shame: the Father of the Children might have liked that.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

Read Claire's previous diary