While it seems far-fetched that moving house could be anywhere near as bad as the death or life-threatening illness of a loved one or acrimonious separation or being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed, it makes more sense once you grasp that these surveys blur the distinction between buying and selling property and relocation.
Together they contain numerous potential pressure points, from fear of missing out on or paying too much for your dream home to the suspicion you're being manipulated by real estate agents; from being dicked around by the bank and the various solicitors to discovering the removalists have lost or smashed something vital to your livelihood or emotional equilibrium.
Having just been through a move, I can confirm it's no walk in the park.
Researchers have identified a plethora of stress triggers, some obvious - contemplating the 58 cartons of things you have to find a new home for, an exercise for which you're emotionally and practically unprepared - and some that come out of left field - finding that one of the cartons contains long-lost letters from an old flame.
In my experience you could lump them all together and they'd still pale in comparison with the soul-crushing ordeal of hooking up to broadband and Sky.
It strengthened my suspicion that the more connected we are in technological terms, the less connected we are in human terms. It also persuaded me the corporate world has a lot of nerve deriding government dysfunction and pushing the line that, compared to the tortoise-like public service, the private sector is agile and proactive with a laser-like focus on delivering what the customer wants.
For a while it felt like negotiating a nuclear deal with the Iranians. Then I remembered that if US Secretary of State John Kerry reached the end of his tether, he could always pick up the phone and tell the President, "This is a waste of time, let's just bomb the bastards". Sadly, I didn't have the consolation of that option.
It was more like a cross between a Kafka novel about an individual driven mad by the impenetrability of a faceless bureaucracy and Groundhog Day. Each time I rang I got someone who sounded exactly like the last person I'd spoken to but wasn't. And although I'd given my details and explained my situation to the last person, I'd have to do it all over again. (This after waiting in a phone queue for half an hour listening to a song that became more bitterly ironic with each repetition: "I know you know I know that you know you're so special to me.")
And when I'd finished explaining myself I'd be told I'd come to the wrong department, if not the wrong company.
During a lull in this torment I went to the South Wairarapa District Council office to collect my recycling bins. I parked right outside. There was no queue. The woman behind the counter was friendly and eager to help. My bins materialised within two minutes. The woman offered me her marker pen to label them.
I almost forget I was no closer to getting broadband and Sky.
