An accurate representation of the joys of moving house. Photo / 123rf
I’m in the middle of moving house, and I’ve come to a simple conclusion: we’ve been doing this all wrong.
Every move is the same tragic performance: endless boxes, broken tape dispensers, and a mate who says, “I’d love to help … but“.
Somewhere between boxing up my third set of salad servers and discovering a drawer entirely dedicated to old phone chargers, it hit me: we shouldn’t be moving stuff at all.
We should just move ourselves.
Imagine that. You walk out the door, lock the house behind you, and leave everything exactly as it is.
The couch, the chairs, the mismatched cutlery, even that random box of CDs from 1990 labelled “Driving Tunes Vol. 2″.
Everything stays. The next people move in and simply adopt your stuff.
If they find a sewing machine, they become sewers.
A treadmill? Welcome to the world of accidental fitness enthusiasts.
A mysterious box of cables and chargers? Congratulations, you’re the neighbourhood tech support (don’t worry, a simple “turn it off and on” works 60% of the time, all of the time).
It’s a seamless handover of clutter, moving without the work, without the lifting — it’s like passing the torch.
Only problem is, the torch has flat batteries, but don’t worry, there are some somewhere … maybe in the drawer under the weirdly heavy fish-shaped doorstop.
When you hang up the Sellotape dispenser and think about it, moving is a bizarre ritual.
We spend days, weeks, even, carefully wrapping up things we don’t use, just so we can take them somewhere else and not use them again.
We cling to the illusion that all this stuff means something when most of it is just the physical version of “I’ll deal with that later”.
There’s a certain honesty in starting over completely, showing up with nothing but yourself and a toothbrush.
Every time I move, I tell myself I’ll use the opportunity to declutter. I’ll be ruthless this time.
But you can’t rush that sort of decision-making; it’s like being a museum curator for your own bad choices.
You start with noble intentions: “Right, anything I haven’t used in the last year goes”.
Then you pick up an old t-shirt and suddenly remember the concert you wore it to in 2007. Too emotionally significant to toss.
Before long, you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by piles meant to represent progress but now looking like a timeline of indecision.
That’s why I like the idea of moving house like you’re entering witness protection.
New house, new life, new identity. You don’t bring your old stuff or your old self. You arrive clean, unburdened, mysterious.
“Who’s that guy next door?” they’ll whisper.
“No one knows, but he doesn’t own a single broken lamp or novelty mug.”
Minimalism sounds dreamy.
Those pristine online rooms with a single chair and a perfectly placed plant look peaceful.
But try living like that. Where do the half-used soy sauce bottles go (they seem to have the half-life of a radioactive isotope)?
The spare batteries that might be dead, but you can’t throw away? The “important documents” drawer that’s mostly old takeaway menus? Real life isn’t minimal, it’s messy.
The fantasy of walking away from it all is appealing. Because what really wears you down during a move isn’t the lifting, it’s the sorting.
Every object demands a decision. Every decision drags up a little memory.
You can’t just throw away that chipped mug; it’s from your first flat.
That weird ornament? Your aunt gave it to you.
Those jeans you haven’t fitted since 2014? “They might come back”.
Moving becomes emotional archaeology, digging through layers of who you used to be.
And yet, as exhausting as it is, there’s something cleansing about it.
Moving strips everything back. You see what you actually value, what’s just habit, and what’s pure sentimental nonsense.
You also see, quite clearly, that you probably don’t need four different potato peelers.
But the best part of moving is arriving at the new place.
For a brief, magical window, everything feels possible.
You don’t know where anything goes yet, which means technically you can’t be wrong.
Bold declarations abound: “This time I’ll be organised, this time I’ll only buy what I need, this time I’ll keep the shed tidy”.
You believe it. At least until you open your first box and find three identical pairs of scissors and chargers for phones that no longer exist.
And yes, moving has a little bit of Christmas in it if you do it like me, using a vague Da Vinci code to label boxes.
Every box you open is like a mini-Christmas present: the thrill of not knowing what’s inside, followed by mild disappointment that it’s not what you hoped.
It’s festive chaos, but without the fruitcake and marzipan icing.
So next time I move, I’m sticking to my plan. No boxes, no bubble wrap, no “where’s the Allen key?” drama.
I’ll leave the furniture, the kitchenware, even the dodgy lamp with the wobbly switch. Someone else can inherit it all.
I’ll walk out with nothing but a toothbrush, a clean slate, and perhaps, if I’m feeling sentimental, a fresh pair of socks.
Finally, if you’re looking for a new life in Christchurch, I know a house with baggage and a drawer of old phone chargers.