Everything we own is now at my father’s; neatly stowed away in boxes. My back is broken in three places, muscles ache in places I didn’t know exist, I’ve lost a pint of blood and my general condition is poor. “All moving is war” as one can read in the book the art of moving: Sun Tzu.
My house is now like the inside of an empty carton of milk. White walls, white ceiling and absolutely nothing in it except for our window to the world (TV) and a bed. Fortunately my wife was kind enough to treat me with a massage. Still, I don’t want to do that again this year. Oh yeah: I’d probably be a drooling mess if it wasn’t for my good friend Flipse who helped me out moving our stuff! Thanks for the help mate! I owe you one.
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