My task was to deliver all their stuff to their new digs.
Naturally, both sets of parents have been engaged to assist with the move, either in a child-minding or cleaning/transportation capacity.
And typically with these two, the big day is somewhat chaotic.
I turned up expecting to simply hitch up a packed and full trailer and maybe stack a couple or three boxes in the ute but the house was still in a state of upheaval.
As my old dad would have said: There was stuff from a***hole to elbow. I’m sure you get the picture.
Oh well. In such cases. one simply has to suck it up and just pitch in doesn’t one? So that’s what I did.
I made a quick call and cancelled the appointment I’d scheduled for later that day, knowing full well I’d be here for a lot longer than expected, and then rolled my sleeves up and got stuck in.
For the next few hours, I painstakingly filled boxes and bags and then placed them in the ute cab, followed by the ute tray and then the attached trailer.
There was stuff, er, stuffed in every nook and cranny to be found between the various square boxes, bags and other oddly shaped items.
Eventually, I was given the all-clear to depart and headed off minutes after the Boomerang Child and Mrs P had left in a separate car convoy.
The plan was for me to follow them to the new place but it seems somewhere in the chaos they weren’t given the instruction and 20 minutes into the drive they had disappeared in the traffic.
Unperturbed, I soldiered on. I knew the country road in question but not the house number. No drama. I’d stop once I’d turned into the road and ring for directional advice.
No reply from the Boomerang Child or Mrs P so I tried Builder Boy.
He wasn’t too alarmed. He’d tried ringing himself to see how they were getting on but was confident they’d probably stopped somewhere with the kids on the way and perhaps had left phones in the cars. That sort of thing. Or maybe they were at the house already and the reception wasn’t great.
Unfortunately, Builder Boy didn’t know the house number but it was simple to find.
“It’s, literally, the first driveway on the left where the road turns to gravel at the end of the tarseal,” he said.
Seemed straightforward and it was. Sure enough, the tarseal ended and within 10 metres of gravel road, there was a driveway that took me a good half a kilometre down a very bumpy track to the house.
An empty house. Nobody around. Hmmm.
I tried phoning again but reception was blocked by the big hill behind me so I trudged back up the drive to the gravel road where it was a bit better and tried again.
No luck with the girls but again Builder Boy wasn’t perturbed.
“They won’t be far off,” he said confidently. “Maybe if you can just start putting stuff in the garage we’ll be there soon to help.”
So back down the trail I trudged and started the sweaty job of unloading everything into the garage, hoping someone would turn up soon to assist me in my endeavours.
I’d been going about an hour and a bit, back and forth, and was on the last three boxes in the trailer when I heard a car coming up the driveway.
“Typical,” I thought as I lugged the last box inside the now-packed garage.
As I re-emerged, expecting to be greeted by one of our moving party, I was surprised to see a complete stranger staring warily back at me.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
Thinking he might have been a good neighbour doing a check of the house I quickly explained my daughter and her bloke were moving in for a few months and I was, unexpectedly, the first moving truck to arrive.
Somewhat bemused, the bloke then told me this was his house and he lived here. What’s more, he had not let it to any housesitters and had not had any communication with anybody regarding such an arrangement.
Quickly it dawned on me I’d come to the wrong house. So, I made my profound apologies and started returning all the stuff I’d put in the garage to the ute and trailer.
My new mate wasn’t available to assist – I would have felt stink accepting any offer, anyway – as he was late for an appointment himself and had to leave. So for the next however long or so it was all me – again – loading up.
Eventually, I had it all onboard and drove back up the driveway to the gravel road where my phone soon pinged into life. Mrs P was wondering where I was.
By this stage feeling somewhat knackered, I wearily told My Beloved my tale of woe.
“It’s the next driveway after that,” she explained sympathetically. “It’s got the owner’s name on the letterbox.”
And sure enough it did. Making it very easy to find.
As I drove down the fairly straightforward track to the house I considered what ghastly retribution I could inflict on Builder Boy for leaving out that key bit of info and the consequent misdirection that had caused me such grief and exhaustion.
Execution felt like a hugely satisfying prospect but by the time I reached the house and my waiting girls I figured I’d just settle for the pleasure of watching him unloading the ute and trailer by himself while I enjoyed a cuppa and a bite inside.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen.
It seems, so perturbed was he by my non-arrival – and with darkness coming on and rain forecast – he’d dropped his load at the house and driven back to the original destination to see if he could find me.
So now he was back there, at least an hour away, and with the first spits of expected rain starting to fall and the girls occupied inside with the littlies, the race was on to get everything inside the garage before it got wet.
Guess who had to unload the ute and trailer. Again.
