The Fag Hag moves house

Four and a half years ago, the Fag Hag and her then new boyfriend decided to take the bold step of moving in together.

Guided by a heady mixture of romance, limited funds, and maybe a little bit of desperation, the Fag Hag and her man, like most couples caught up in that early relationship ecstasy, headed to the Wellington region’s trendiest suburb and found their lovenest in the Wellington region’s crummiest flat.

Four and a half years on, our love for each other stands the test of time. Our love for the flat however, has not. The fact that it is still standing at all is something of a puzzle. For the Fag Hag at least, the sentimental value of this first flat with her boyfriend is well past its use-by date. What was once shabby chic to the romance clouded mind of the Fag Hag is now nothing more than a damp, cold, prison with inadequate storage space. It’s taken four and a half years to see the place for what it is, and now it’s time to move out! We’ve found a place, booked a moving truck; it’s really happening!

Moving to a new place often marks an exciting time in our lives; be it moving out of the parental home for the first time, moving in with a boyfriend/girlfriend, or moving into one’s first own home, moving house is a big deal. In the case of the Fag Hag and her man the reasons for our move aren’t much more exciting than a pressing need to preserve our mental health. But when you get to our age, that’s pretty much all you have left!

Anyway, as exciting as moving house can be, the tiresome task of packing up all your belongings is a necessary chore few of us can escape – try as we might. Weeks ago when the tenancy agreement for our new place was signed, the Fag Hag couldn’t wait to move in.
For weeks I’ve pictured where my furniture will sit in the new place, I’ve contemplated the summer BBQ parties we’ll throw in the spacious backyard, and I’ve dreamed of the luxury…of a heated towel rack.

But now with less than four days until the moving truck is due to arrive, moving day looms ominously over the Fag Hag’s head. The place is in a mess and all I have managed to pack in the last four weeks is a few cups, some cutlery and of course my liquor supplies.

It doesn’t help that in the process of sorting through her belongings the Fag Hag has actually done more unpacking than packing. Y’know how it is: you’ve set aside a whole weekend for the very important tidying up project; five minutes into the task you start finding things like old photographs, school yearbooks, university assignments, diaries, unpaid bills, old school ball dresses…

The next thing you know you’re wearing the school ball dress (you’ve done your hair and make up as well) and you’re posting humourous tweets about your most cringeworthy photographs and diary entries.

And there you have it, a whole afternoon wasted by a trip down memory lane and you’re left sitting, in your ball gown, in the middle of an even bigger mess than what you started with. Not such a good look as it turns out when your boyfriend gets home from the supermarket trip you sent him on so you would have time to tackle the tidying up.

So as far as the packing goes, it looks like the Fag Hag will be resorting to plan B – as in all the packing will be done in a wild, chocolate fuelled, rampage the night before moving day. I’m hoping that some sort of primal instinct will kick in at the eleventh hour and for a couple of precious hours the Fag Hag will be a model of efficiency and organisation as she is possessed by last minute adrenalin.

So next time you hear from me I’ll still be living in the Wellington region’s trendiest suburb just in a slightly less crummy flat!  I won’t miss the mould, the mildew, the draughts, the leaks and the occasional mousy visitors at the place we’re leaving, but still I must give it its dues. For the most part of four and a half years the Fag Hag and her man have lived very happily here.

I’d like to think that the fact we’ve lived together in such a dive for so long is due to more than just our meagre finances, but a testament to our simple desire just to be together. Though how much longer that desire would sustain us without the addition of a heated towel rack is anyone’s guess!

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