On Thursday I moved.
On Friday I fell asleep for an entire night and into Saturday morning.
The first one I may have mentioned a few times.
The second, not so sure if I’ve shared.
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I moved here from there, happily so.
The back story is quick.
In March 2024 there was an electrical fire that gutted the kitchen and smoke damaged the house I endearingly called “the poor wee cottage.”
The next month, I found a place virtually whilst I was over in England, and took up residence when I got back in May.
I’m going to sum up that May – April living situation by simply stating thusly: There was nothing wrong with where I lived; it just wasn’t a good match. I never got comfortable. I never felt secure. I didn’t even hang a picture.
That being said … moving on (literally) …
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The entire move took 5 hours and was orchestrated by two very cool professional dudes doing all of the work.
I am amazed by people who can move things. I can barely handle a suitcase with wheels let alone a queen-sized bed headboard down a flight of stairs.
But they did that and more and added about 45 other boxes to boot.
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Then the lads drove 10 miles east to the downtown area, riding the elevator at least 19 times from the ground level to the 9th floor.
Where they piled boxes in rooms according to box labels. Put back together stuff they had to take apart. And asked where I wanted furniture to be placed.
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Without worth of a lie, when the guys left, my inner voice said: Wait. What? You’re leaving?
And with their departure, so too went the last 11 months of that ill-fitted housing situation.
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My first night in the new place was odd. Not bad odd. More like, being-in-a-hotel odd.
I found myself getting up a few times to look around and gaze at the city lights and night sky.
THAT, I expected.
What followed on Friday I did not.
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Not since the poor wee cottage have I been able to sleep through the night.
And it’s bothered me so much because I adore sleep.
To be precise, when I’m in England, I have zero issues falling asleep and staying that way. I put my head to pillow at night then wake sometime in the lovely new morning.
Living in that other place, yeah, not so much.
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There were creepy inside house night noises. Acorns and tree bits dropped on the roof. There were window-expanding noises and taps. There were car back fires or pellet popping sounds (whatever and unpleasant).
I’d wake at 11 at 1 at 3 at 4 … then give up trying until daylight broke and I could catch a few ZZZs before going to work.
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And it went on like that every night. I stopped stressing over it and just told myself it’ll be fixed when I’m next back in England. And I was right.
Until this morning.
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Now, I am not a person who gets things for free. And boy have I been known to screw up the best of times. So, I don’t want to jinx anything.
But between you, me and this blog … holy moly wow cow … I closed my eyes around 11 last night and when I opened them again it was a 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
I mean, c’mon!
Had I not seen it first-hand, I’m not sure I would believe such a lavish tale.
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I could seriously gush and gasp about this all day.
But I don’t want to draw any unwanted attention or gossip, just in case this ends up being a fluke.
Remember the rule: First time is a mistake. Second time is a coincidence. Third time’s the trend.
Cross fingers this one goes for the charm.
Happy Saturday.