Never try moving house with a hangover
I moved into my brother's flat in East London for six months and ended up staying over two years, whoops. He pointed this out to me when we were both attending a friend's wedding. I brushed passed him on the dance floor, and seven glasses of champagne in, decided this was an ideal time to share some sibling sentiment. 'I love you dude', I said smiling my free-bar-all-night smile. 'I love you too' he said wearily, as if he would prefer not to, 'but you've got to move out of my bloody flat'.
Now many an ex-boyfriend who has tried to dump me might say that I don't always pick up on the hints (i.e. Him: 'Katy, this isn't working, I'm in love with someone else'. Me: 'OK great, see you Friday!') but I saw the utter exhaustion in my brother's face so 10 days later I secured new lodgings in a nice house with a flamboyant gay actor in a part of London that we shall graciously describe as 'up-and-coming'.
This analogy might be lost on some Irish shoppers but if my brother's neighbourhood was Waitrose, then my new one is Poundland.
The day before the move, I get up early intending to execute packing my earthly belongings with military precision, but I spend most of the day fannying around trying on dresses I haven't worn in five years and wondering, instead of throwing them in the clothes bank, if I could learn to sew and make them into a nice selection of scatter cushions.
I flick through old photos and cry a bit, then take myself to the shop for some trans fats to cheer myself up. They work temporarily but, unable to get out of the funk I'm in, I decide to meet friends in a pub. You know how this goes, one drink turns to white wine wreckage and at 5am I am outside a nightclub throwing my hands in the air and shouting 'How come no one in this city has parties anymore?'
It does occur to me, when I wake up a few hours later, my mottled turnip face mashed into the pillow, that perhaps I have deliberately tried to sabotage this move because I don't like change.