Send In the Bulldozers
Getting the Green Light
While I learn to appreciate and cherish my country more and more as the years roll by, there are some things that I do not understand nor try to do so. One of them is why it had to take 9 months for approvals to come in to start reconstruction works and the phenomenal cost of real estate, whether for rental, purchase or to rebuild.
As friends and relatives in other parts of the world embarked on similar projects and pictures of their works in progress appear fast and furious on social media, I had nothing to show for mine. But life goes on, and in the throes of being kept waiting, I got on with life, went on holiday, celebrated a major milestone, made allowance for other projects...while this almost dwindled into a non event.
Until the morning of 8 June when an innocuous beep on my iphone went off, and a message from Mr Y flashed " Good morning can start packing and planning for moving out to start works." Oh, this has been in a deep slumber and things are beginning to stir once more.
Looking For an Interim Home
I got straight down to work that night, plugging away at search engines for properties to rent. By process of elimination, the search was narrowed to landed listings near D and A's schools; unfurnished and within budget . We shortlisted a few, and went house-hunting the next day, which was a Sunday.
We saw some houses in "original" condition, no better than a shack, belonging to very optimistic owners who still hoped to rake in a handsome rental as a windfall. Our last viewing for the evening was a house in Kovan which we had driven past and a lightbulb came on simultaneously in my head and the supportive spouse's. This looked really promising. I called the agent who stated categorically that the owner wanted a minimum 2-year tenancy. We were planning to stay for 18 months or so, but not as long as that. In a moment of desperately wanting to view the interior, I called the agent again for an appointment.
That night, G and I, together with A, went to view the house. Apart from the agent, the owner was there too, lurking in the background, sizing us up. After a quick tour of the place, we told the agent that we would be prepared to take it up, but not for the full length of 2 years as the construction would not stretch that long. As we left, my heart sank a little at the thought of the hassle and ordeal of resuming the search once more.
Barely 5 minutes after we had driven off, G's phone rang and it was from the agent. He said that the owner has agreed to rent out the house to us for a minimum of 12 months, after which we can give him 2 months' notice to vacate, subject to a pro-rated payment of the agent's commission to be reimbursed to the owner. We felt truly blessed with the offer and the ease with which we found a suitable place to stay - all in one day! Lord, we give you thanks.
Moving Out and Moving On
Do not try to imagine what 15 years of accumulated surplus is like! It's a mixture of guilt, amazement , incredulity and denial. But with the evidence piled up in front, I got down to work at getting rid of it , mercilessly and ruthlessly, in the absence of G, who is the resident hoarder.
It took 3 trips to the box supplier to replenish the boxes, in multiples of 10s, transferring pre-loved stuffs to different boxes headed for Davao, and countless trips to the Salvation Army to downsize my arsenal of books and other consumables.
By the first week of July, we were scheduled to move, ready or not. With more than half our possessions tucked away in boxes not to be opened indefinitely, I struggled with the nagging question of whether I could live with so much less.... I missed what used to be in the wardrobe and on the book shelves. I had severe withdrawal symptoms. Through it all, the supportive spouse kept his cool and humour. I marvel at the make-up of the man, and his ability to put up with a temporarily near insane and neurotic woman under the same roof.
I was a burnt-out wreck in July of 2013. To the male psyche, moving out is all in a day's work - ie shifting stuff and furniture from point A to point B. To the female psyche, moving is the massive work to be done before and after moving-in day. Everyday, there are important decisions to be made as to what to pack and what to discard, where to store and how. Decisions, decisions, decisions. In the meanwhile, the other half happily considers it a done deal, as long as there is the 9 o'clock news, the i-pad, and a bed to sleep in. Men are such simple creatures, by design or purpose! The teenagers are similar, minus the news.
By August, after a month of reorganizing and packing, our house was beginning to attain some semblance of normalcy. I settled in after a shaky start, even getting used to climbing up stairs and white interiors. I made new discoveries in the new locale. Finding a branch of my favourite restaurant nearby instead of having to travel 10 km lifted my spirits considerably. I was amazed at how my tastes and preferences have shifted as well. (More about that later)
It is the first day of September. The boxes are stacked neatly in place, mostly out of sight in the basement. I now know where most things are, having repacked them myself. I am mustering resolve to regain control of the kitchen again, after more than a decade of exile. I am learning to make do with much less stuff and a whole lot more of creativity.
It is beginning to feel like home once again...
Comments
Post a Comment