Piano woes

Whoever said that moving was one of the most stressful things a person can do was not lying. I have spent all day oscillating between sheer panic and complete resentment. Just changing our address for the purpose of car insurance, council tax, electoral roll, home insurance, medical records, parking permits, banking, (the list goes on and on) takes a lengthy phone call which almost invariably involves an automated system. The councils don’t deal with information centrally. You have to call each of their countless “divisions” to get yourself out of - and to sign into - a myriad money-making schemes. Why there isn’t some central database which all of these approved organisations can join, I’ve no idea. By and large, Nathan is dealing with the admin bullshit, whilst I do heavy lifting. My particular stress is related to not feeling like I’m getting anywhere. It’s like I’m individually moving grains of sand with hopes of moving an entire beach. As we get about half way from Highgate to Finchley, a knot starts to form in my stomach because it means I have to carry scores of heavy bags up many flights of steps. Nathan wants to move the flat one room at a time so there’s a series of mini milestones. My philosophy is to chip away on all fronts because one day everything will be done. That day just seems like a long way off right now. The only thing I WILL say is that, with every emptied car load, I feel a little lighter... emotionally and physically (I have sweated gallons!) The biggest stress of all is trying to move my piano. We live on the second floor, but the stairs up to our flat twist and turn a great deal. It turns out that piano movers call each turn a new floor, so essentially, from their perspective, I live on the sixth floor. Moving the piano is therefore completely prohibitive in terms of cost. Probably £600-£1000. And people have been so rude. One person gave me a quote based on the idea that my flat had a lift! I mean, how likely is that? This particular company were really unpleasant and wrote me a really snippy message telling me I’d “wasted their time.” I told them that if they knew as much about removals as they claimed to, they’d know there wasn’t a residential flat within a mile of either of our properties with a lift in it! The piano belonged to my aunt. It’s not valuable, but I am hugely attached to it. I’ve written every single composition I’ve ever created sitting at it. The idea that I might have to give it to someone on free-cycle who has a van, or is prepared to take it off my hands, makes me want to curl up and weep, but at times like these, sentimentality is pointless. Poor people don’t have the right to be sentimental!