I’d like to say that I was strolling around Barcelona with a glass of Rioja in hand but the location was thousands of miles away from sunny Catalunya.
Last week, my seven work free days were passed in the not so sunny Moville. Yes, we’ve moved back to the heartland of Donegal. After years of apartment hopping in Derry and living no further than a few miles from the city centre - I’m now 40 minutes from the land of the big supermarkets and high street stores.
Before this I’d never considered moving a big deal. In my single days I’d lived in all manner of places from a minute apartment to a giant apartment to the ultimate girly haven where I shared a lovely house in a lovely street with my lovely sister and best friend.
Then of course Cupid got busy and I met himself. Ultimately that was to spell the end of the urban rental market for me. With himself being from Donegal and me also hailing from the famous ‘Down South’ it was inevitable that some day after our little bundle of joy arrived we’d probably make the journey back to the heartland.
You might say I underestimated the stress involved in this move in much the same way that Bill Clinton underestimated the impact Monica Lewinsky would have on his life.
My previous experiences of upping sticks had involved about two car runs, a few suitcases and one or two boxes. There was a day or two of being quite busy with it all but then normality would resume.
This was before the baby came along.
I never used to believe those surveys that rated moving house as being up there with divorce in terms of stress. I’d always wondered what all the fuss was about.
I’m not wondering anymore.
In fact I’d safely say that I’ll never wonder that again.
Last week pretty much involved moving everything from one place to another in mostly wet weather. There was the cleaning of the new house, the cleaning of the old house in preparation for new tenants, the organising of the new house, the misplacement of numerous bits of paperwork and pairs of socks and somewhere in between it all - the losing of my sanity.
Add to the equation that as a relatively new driver I’m currently navigating the bendiest stretch of road in the country on a daily basis and you have all the ingredients for one very stressed journalist.
Such was my stress that I contemplated becoming one of those new age living off the land types with my own chickens and no tv.
This objective however remains grately hampered by the fact that I couldn’t cope without my hair straighteners and himself and myself couldn’t manage our first week without Sky Plus.
The long and short of it is that we’re not really the River Cottage types and until such times as we embrace the Dungarees were bound for the rat race with our direct debits and satellite dishes. That pretty much means that moving house means moving our lives on paper too. It also means moving my shoes and dresses and handbags and gladrags as well as my microwave, tv, cds, dvds, laptop, washing machine and every other modern convenience known to man.
As yet, we’re still waiting on the broadband connection. We’re telling ourselves we might live without it but I’m already missing my online updates on days off.
So the good news is that we hopefully won’t be moving again. The bad news is that if we do, because we can’t get by without our home comforts, we’re set for another unbelievably stressful week.
Moving may be up there with divorce and it comes to stress but I wonder what the statistics are like for moving causing divorce.
Thankfully we’ve survived this one marriage intact!