The day the joists rotted through

Well, hardly a day.

Joists don’t rot through in a day, but thanks to our boob of a landlord, who has a footloose and fancy-free attitude toward home repair, our house has serious structural problems. Meaning, we must move. By the end of the month.

Great.

I can now look forward to packing instead of endless hours napping. I can also look forward to…Sigh. Don’t make me say it.

Battling with Virgin Media.

I hate them. I hate them. And it must seem like I hate a lot of things, but I actually reserve my hate for the truly hateable. Actually, hating some things, like Virgin Media, has made me reflect fondly on other things, like Comcast. God, I miss Comcast. Good ol’ efficient Comcast. You come in, install our broadband, and it works, by golly! And you don't seem confounded by things like a SCART connection or a television set.

Any-old-hoo. Back to the problem at hand.

I've come to loathe moving. (Another variant of hate, agreed, but let's move on.) Ask any military family or civilian military contractor's family (us), who has had to move. A lot. From country to country. Sending pots and pans and precious family photographs from APO to APO.

Moving sucketh. It sucketh the raw eggeth.

And, while, yes, the physical aspect of moving is a drag, it's the emotional tole that's the worst. Everyone wants someplace to call home. I have been known to call hotel rooms "home." I called our apartment at RAF Alconbury "home" for the brief month we stayed there. Because we've moved around so much, I have a strong need for an emotional home base. I need a home.

So. Sadly, and once again, we will be moving. My surroundings will change. Everything familiar to me will change. Home will change.

Phooey.