There is no scientific term for standing in the middle of your house and visualising how many boxes you need to pack your life into. The average guppy can squeeze its life into a matchbox assuming it doesn’t own the tank, filter and sunken pirate’s ship. We pride ourselves on being higher in the food chain than a guppy.
Flashback to 2002: We moved to London for a year of adventure. At the time we were still living with our respective parents and it was a case of packing our backpacks, closing the bedroom door and hopping on a plane. Upon our return we bought a house and with the five items of donated furniture had moved house before lunchtime. Almost eight years later we realised that we had a lot of stuff and had never packed a house before. We needed to store it all somewhere so we could rent the house out.
Present day: Standing in the centre of our abode we held a cardboard moving box in our hands and using our advanced powers of spatial reasoning, which later became known as special reasoning, we came up with the figure of fifteen boxes to pack up seven and a half years of suburban living.
We were only out by fifteen boxes or 100% for the statisticians out there. The next day a conversation with my parents transpired. It began with the fateful line, “Mum, you remember my old room?”
Thirty boxes were moved at a speed equal to that of Pangaea. Let the record show that I did want to by a station wagon instead of a sedan. After refurbishing my old bedroom with a mountain of boxes we returned to our almost empty house. Our garage was not included in the equation.
“Dad, you know that space in your shed?”