True Skate for iOS Review

When I was a lad I loved two things: comics and boobs. As I got older, I added skateboarding and videogames to the mix.

As am now, what could arguably and some might say laughably, be referred to as an adult, I’ve kept my passion for all of those things and as everyone knows, if you can combine your passions, the resulting awesomesplurge could be potentially climactic.

I remember seeing 720 at the arcades (remember those kids?) for the first time and being first excited – here was a genuine skateboarding videogame — prepare the awesomesplurge — then utterly underwhelmed. I mean, the guy bonelessed EVERWHERE. It was like the designers weren’t actually skateboarders.

A friend had California Games on a spectrum & we spent many happy hours trying to figure out how to land straight on an 8-bit halfpipe.

Then finally came the revolution: Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater on the Playstation. God, it was beautiful. Grinds, slides, airs, real skaters, real spots — and you ollied. THPS2 brought nose slides and tail slides to the repertoire and I was, for a short time, truly happy.

Eventually the game became less about skateboarding and felt more like a fighting game in terms of play style, due to having to learn button sequences and the requirement to chain combos in order to get anything like a decent score. It was still the best thing out there, (Until “Skate” at least,) but feature creep (the board controller didn’t go down well,) all but killed it.

The next innovation for me was TouchGrind. Played like a fingerboard, (which I own several of and play with absent-mindedly/obsessively,) it used your fingers to control an on-screen board with simulated physics. It was a great idea, but was hampered by the lack of screen space, particularly on the iPhone/iPod Touch, meaning setting up tricks was next to impossible due to not being able to see what was ahead.

True Skate takes that idea in essence and turns it on its head – almost literally. It features an over-the-shoulder view that is played in portrait mode, which feels weird for about two minutes but then you ‘get it’ and the freedom of view gives the game the dimension TouchGrind needed.

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Controls are fairly simple: Swipe the ground to ‘push’, tap the board and slide to turn. Tricks begin with the Ollie — tap the tail, then slide up the deck to pop into the air. Scoop the tail for shove-its, slide out once in the air for flips. If you’re a skater, it’ll all feel pretty intuitive. One thing I really like is the ability to ‘catch’ the deck in mid air, e.g. when doing a kickflip, you can tap the deck to stop it flipping for a clean landing.

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After the brief tutorials, it’s just you and the park. No “collect S-K-A-T-E” or races to win, no combos to chain; just free skating, doing tricks and having fun.

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Coming in at a very reasonable £1.49, this is hands-down, (pun intended,) the best skateboarding game on iOS and I’m including THPS2 in that, even allowing for the nostalgia factor.

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There’s still room for improvement though; grinding rails is not easy to achieve (although I have already improved with practice,) and I’d like to see an option for riding goofy, as currently I heelflip when I think I’m going to kickflip. Other than that, maybe another park down the line available as an in-app purchase?
Recommended.

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World “running out of pixels” says science.

A worldwide pixel shortage looms heavy over us all like a flying whale, says the scientific community.

“People don’t realise that pixels are a finite commodity,” says Olympus Pentaxia, Professor of Digital Imaging at the University of Scunthorpe, “and there’s a very real danger we will run out in the not-too-distant future.”

She explains that with the annual increase in pixel capacity in digital cameras and smartphones, there was already an emerging problem, with the ‘pixel wars’ causing untold depletion in the world stock.

“We breathed a sigh of relief when the first tablets arrived on the market, as they were cameraless.” But the reprieve was short-lived, with second generation tablets featuring not one, but two pixel-munchers.

Picture-sharing websites compounded the problem: ”We got in touch with Flickr soon after they started up to try and explain the damage they were causing,” sobbed Olympus, “But like climate change skeptics, they just wouldn’t listen to reason.”

“At least 500px tried to limit each photo’s impact,” She says, “but is it enough?” I explain about the website’s carbon-neutral policy to try and assuage some of her stress: ”That’s nice,” she says, “But it’s not really what I’m concerned about.”

She tells me about the rise in both compact and DSLR digital cameras:

“Camera users tend to fall into two groups,” she explains, “Happy snappers, who take photos of occasional outings and family events and ‘Togs, who try to take artistic shots, either as hobbyists or professionals. These guys take a lot more photos,” she continues, “but only keep the best ones, thus releasing the pixels in the poorer shots back into the wild once deleted.”

But her real concern is smartphone owners, she tells me: ”Our real concern is smartphone owners,” she says, “because having a camera on you at all times led to people feeling they could just snap away with wild abandon at anything they wanted, even if it’s not interesting!”

That leads me on to the topic of Instagram. As soon as I mention the picture-sharing service, Ms. Pentaxia visibly shudders.

“It’s like they have no idea,” she says, “Some people’s feeds are just photos of what they eat, or self portraits, or else they’re just plain dull! It’s really a waste of the scant resources we have remaining.”

An open letter to First Capital (Dis)Connect.

On the evening of Monday, 23rd July 2012, I was on a train home after work. It had been a hot day and the cooling breeze coming in from the windows was welcome as we tickety-tacked our way back to our homesteads, to relax, eat, spend time with our families and recharge, ready for the next day of exciting challenges that the morrow may bring.

I have a tendency to listen to music, or on occasion a podcast on the way home, my current favourite being The Bugle; for the purposes of drowning out the inane chatter, apoplexy-inducing chewing noises, or other people’s idea of music – at best a tinny rendition of what sounds like a guinea-pig battering itself to death on a small ceremonial gong, squealing in pain with each cranial trauma, and accompanied by a cadre of hysterical wasps, stinging each other senseless in a sado-masochistic orgy of weaponised appendage-based violence – of my fellow commutards, and thus missed the first announcement; explaining that we wouldn’t be allowed to return to our loved ones any time soon, as the rail company had decided to hold us all hostage in an under-ventilated sardine can on wheels, just outside of the city of Ely on one of the hottest days of the year so far.

After we had ground crushingly to a halt, there was another announcement, to the same effect and this time my natural inquisitive nature, bolstered by my astute and acute sense of cynicism, which intuitively sensed that there was something coming up which I might want to preemptively start raising my ire for, caused me to stop what I was listening to and actually pay attention.

There was, “a problem with the signals” we were told, and the driver, “expected us to be on our way again shortly.” I settled back in to my music and book, knowing that what I had just heard was almost certainly a cascade of bullshit, designed to placate those passengers who were gullible enough to accept a vague description of a problem, followed by an empty promise. The sort of people who think politicians are telling the truth and have their best interests at heart; or believe adverts that claim to save you money – paid for by multinational corporations where making money is the sole and primary objective; or who don’t understand that shampoo adverts tell you it’ll give you “healthy-looking hair” and not just “healthy hair,” because your visible hair is dead and therefore cannot be healthy and you are, essentially, polishing a turd by using it, but I digress.

Some tens of minutes later, captain helpful was back on the line explaining that it was actually a problem with the points expanding in the heat — a small quirk of physics unbeknown to anyone other than people who attended middle school and stayed awake in science class, not to mention railway engineers — which had come about due to the unseasonable heat during summer – a time of year not normally associated with an increase in thermal activity, so they were utterly unprepared for any kind of sunshine whatsoever due to it being the first time that this had ever happened in recorded history.
The good news was that we would, contrary to all popular belief and defying all seven prophecies of the railway elders, be moving into Ely station in the next few minutes. The bad news was that the train would be terminating there. Any passengers who, for some unfathomable reason, should like to travel further than the lovely Isle of Eels, would be welcome to board one of the resplendent coaches laid on for just such a purpose, however baffling that might be to the rail company.

The following is my sweaty, invective-filled, low-battery warning, live-tweeting of the event, for your ocular and subsequent neuronal ecstasy:

At this point I managed to get on a coach, the driver of which seemed to be qualified through his almost complete knowledge of what each of the three pedals do and what the stick with the knob on it was for. Call me picky, but generally I prefer people in a driving capacity to know not only where they are going, but some local knowledge of the area too.

This next tweet proved to be chillingly prophetic. At this time I will not confirm nor condone gossip around the topic of my alleged psychic abilities.

Ahem. Anyway, on with the show:

And just to confirm:

So now we’re clear, OK?

I also heard from sympathetic coworkers:

I finally arrived home, over an hour late, overheated and clammy, to this scene – the reason I’d been hoping to get home early in the first place:

Dear Autocorrect …

I just wanted to say, well … I like you.
I know we don’t always get along and there have been times when we don’t see eye to eye, but you’ve helped me out a lot during our time together, sometimes without me even realising it and I wanted to let you know that I appreciate your help and guidance, especially when things have been tough and I wanted to give up and walk away from it all.

I just really REALLY wish I could change my behaviour so that I didn’t blindly accept it when you make suggestions that are obviously meant to change what I mean. I know what I mean and ok, sometimes it doesn’t come out right, but I need to be able to use my own words without you twisting what I say, because sometimes it doesn’t even make sense.

Even after all that though, I still need you in my life and I don’t care what your ex’s say about you, or the fact that there’s at least one website out there mocking you and your need to control — I appreciate you and that’s what matters.

So here’s to many more adventures together my darking …

DARLING! I OBVIOUSLY MEANT TO WRITE ‘DARLING’! WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD SAY “MY DARKING?” DARKING ISN’T EVEN A WORD! GOD, YOU’RE SO FUCKING FRUSTRATING SOMETIMES!

This post was written in WordPress for iOS on an iPhone. Autocorrect helped.

Instabillion

So Facebook bought Instagram for $1 Billion — twice its estimated value. It’s been interesting to see how many people were secret market analysts, now popping out if the woodwork, because Twitter is awash in the kind of backlash unseen since Hitler decided to expand his franchise into Poland. (I thought I’d get Godwin’s law in early.)

There are two main camps so far: Those who think Facebook will ruin Instagram as we know & love it by changing it, adding adverts or otherwise Facebookifying it, or possibly just shutting it down entirely, like they did with Gowalla.

A small subsection are jokingly blaming designer @maxvoltar, who worked on Gowalla just before their acquisition by the monstrous book of faces and who then jumped ship to work on Instagram.

The second camp are the secret market analysts who have decided, in their wisdom that one billion dollars is the exact incorrect amount that Facebook should have paid for the company. Few have an amount to hand that would have been correct but there is a general consensus that a billion is not a real amount of money, unless you’re Doctor Evil.

My favourite retweeted comment so far has been: “Kodak goes bankrupt but an app that runs your phone pix through filters to allegedly improve them is sold for $1B #inothernews”

This shows a complete lack of understanding of market economics and really, the capitalist society we live in. I’m no market economist, but anyone with more than a few firing neurons can see that this is the sort of stuff you find behind a male cow.

Firstly, if Kodak are so great, why is no one buying their products anymore? I seriously doubt the people that RT’d that have recently run out to buy Instamatic film. Perhaps if Kodak had kept up with the times and produced a great app with fantastic design and UX that was engaging and relevant to today’s app savvy photography consumers, instead of relying on a dwindling film-based market, then maybe they wouldn’t be filing for bankruptcy.

Secondly, I’m not sure how that is Instagram’s fault, which I feel is somehow implied there.

Thirdly, to call Instagram just a photo filter app is missing several points entirely. For a start it means you don’t understand what a social network is. Instagram is a social sharing site. The filters are pretty much incidental. A hook to get you interested, at best. The community is what keeps people coming back. There are lots of filter apps that don’t have any social capabilities and no one has offered to buy them for a billion. Coincidence?

Also it badly insults a hard working team of people who have built up a company with a userbase of millions from nothing. Are they an overnight success story? Comparatively, sure. But I would put money down that Kevin & the crew have put in some long hours, faced tough decisions and been worried sick about whether they’re going to make it and on occasion, if it will be even worth it if they do.

I love Instagram and use it a lot. I will continue to use it unless Facebook fuck it up, at which point I’ll drop it for something better. But I’m pretty sure I’ll cope either way.

To say you don’t think they’re worth the money? Sorry but it’s not your call. The market decides value. The whole thing smacks of jealousy, to which I have this advice:

You might want to consider setting up your own company making vinegar from your sour grapes and see if anyone snaps you up.

Agree? Disagree? Tell me in the comments.

Happy Easter

Happy Easter.

Or Oestre, Ēostre, or Ostara as she was originally known, from which we derive the word oestrogen. Originally women were honoured as the progenitors of life but men are weak, jealous things. Honour became worship, became obsession and those men that were rejected convinced themselves like half a species of Gollums, that they must gain power over that which they coveted.

We created new gods, that spoke only to men allowing us to speak with authority from on high. We created a system of money that was controlled and supplied by men, allowing us to create a hierarchy of citizenry, based on arbitrary wealth. We created institutions of education that was available only to men and created another subset by which to judge people.

So Oestre and her gender-kin were shoved aside – subsumed in the image and name of Lug, the sun god. Or Osiris, Baal, Yahweh or any of a number of versions on a theme. Men saw the sun and saw raw, destructive power, only later discovering that the method behind the power was a creative force – adding atoms together to create new compounds. They put spin on their god of power by showing people that it was the all-powerful sun, not the tidal moon, that grew their crops – a fact that was apparent to both farmer and king alike.

But the sun god is a hungry god and men turn hunger into greed. If a coin can be earned, a man will want all the coins and will formulate a plan for doing so. If a person can be turned into a second class citizen, then a man will want to sit atop all men and claim them as his subjects. Women were already in the bag. How much better to claim men, with their education and wealth, as subjects?

So here we are. Stuck in a society where might makes right and money can buy you an education or a get out of jail free card, depending on how much you have. Stuck buying things we don’t need on holidays that used to mean something but now serve only as a way to keep people spending money on symbols of the old ways, lost to common knowledge, the money filtering always upward. Yet to learn that combining (fusion) creates more power than dividing (fission) and that principles for atoms can be applicable to people, due to people being made from the same raw materials as the rest of the universe.

My intent is not to subvert anyone from their chosen religion or create dissent, just discuss some hopefully interesting ideas. Feel free to comment below.

Happy Easter. Enjoy your chocolate egg.

 

 

Interested in reading more about these ideas?

Oestre 

From Hell

American Gods

zeitgeist

I’m a bad person

It’s true. You know how I know? There’s a really easy test and all it involves is a minor restatement of the title, dropping the moralising adjective.

I’m a person.

If the above statement can be applied to you, congratulations — you’re a bad person. Or are you?

We’ve all done things we knew were bad, or wrong, or possibly even against the law, but we did them anyway, because presumably the pay off was going to be worth it and our assessment of the risk of being caught and castigated was low.

We use intellectually self-aggrandising reasoning to relieve ourselves of shame and blame:

“But I drive CAREFULLY while breaking the speed limit, unlike those other speeding assholes. They’re the ones the law was really created for!

It’s a normal part of human psychology to do this. It’s called cognitive dissonance and part of its effect is that we are unable to believe we are bad people for doing certain bad things.

Obviously we have all done things which we are actually ashamed of too. Hey, I never said humans were simple creatures. The idea of morality, especially a fixed, consensus morality is one of the most complex abstract concepts around.

There’s the old philosophical constructs that try to prove morality is innate:

There’s a train hurtling down a track towards an innocent person. You can pull a lever which diverts it onto another section of track, missing the person. Do you do it?
Now the lever will divert the train onto a section of track with 5 innocent people on it. Do you let it hit 5 people or 1?
Now the 5 people are all convicted murderers. Do you pull the lever or not? Now one of the murderers is holding a baby. Pull? Don’t pull?

But here’s the rub — morality is fluid, based largely on circumstance. Watch any action movie to see what Hollywood thinks ‘normal’ people might be forced to do in extraordinary circumstances. Even if it is, in part, innate, a large proportion is learned through parents, at first, then peers.

Really, the only difference I see between ‘good’ people and ‘bad’ people, is good people feel bad when they do something bad. In fact showing remorse for their crimes is part of the requirements for paroling prisoners. So the next time you meet someone who tells you, “I don’t have any regrets,” avoid them like the plague as they are definitely a bad person.

Edith Piaf was obviously some kind of sociopath.

First in a long line

My daughter turned one on Saturday. While it’s not unheard of for a 37 year old man to have kids, it still feels kind of amazing and weird to me.

She changes pretty much every day, but for the longest time she seemed to just be this little pink thing that ate and slept, rinse and repeat.

Now she pelts around the house in a walker, has teeth, responds to stuff and babbles away like there’s no tomorrow.

Yesterday was very tiring and confusing for her and myself and @MrsNarshada too. She, of course, got spoiled, but not too spoiled, which I was glad of.

She was particularly confused by her new ball pit, which I initially assumed my in-laws had hired for the day, but no, it was a present. What confused her was when she picked up a ball in each hand, but then couldn’t figure out what all the rest of them were for.

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There did seem to be a theme to her toys — a tambourine, maracas, two xylophones, (I think technically they were glockenspiels,) and an array of electronic toys that chatter, play music and sing — and that theme seemed to be “kiss goodbye to any hope of peace and quiet dad.”

I’m kidding, kind of. We were very grateful that so many people came over and bought presents. We were also lucky to have a very warm, sunny day — which oddly was also the case on her actual birth day — plenty of food and drink, good company, and basically a good time was had by all.

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Commuters: A Field Spotters Guide

Amblers
With no sense of urgency, Amblers, despite being on a morning commuter train, apparently either just ride the rails for fun; wandering the lonely platforms hither and thither on a whim; or else have a job to go to but probably as something quite hippy-fied, meaning they can just get there as and when they feel their chakras are aligned properly.

  • Result: Get out of my way.

Shamblers
Shamblers may, at first glance, seem like Amblers, but don’t let their general lack of speed fool you – Shamblers have somewhere to be, but apparently been told to shuffle there as inconveniently as possible to other commuters. With no sense of their surroundings generally, Shamblers will lope along in front of you, somehow taking up the entire concourse and cutting off your flight plan/exit strategy, whilst managing to get approximately nowhere.

  • Result: Seriously, are you actually TRYING to get in my way?

Turnstile Twats
They’ve been to this station a number of times before – perhaps every day for the last several years, but the sight of a ticket turnstile still renders them incapable of rational thought. Rather than have their ticket ready, they will wait until the last second until they are required to present it and then — and only then, will they start rummaging around through their invariably jumble-sale outfit with at least forty pockets, the mere existence of some of which baffles and amuses them. They will turn out these lined marvels with wonder, stopping to gaze in awe at a crumpled and used piece of tissue etc.

Double points if you have to rummage around in a bag. Triple points if it doesn’t occur to you to move out of the way to let others through.

  • Result: What are you, retarded?

Sudden Stoppers
They will, for no reason apparent to man nor beast, suddenly stop for no reason. Generally in a doorway, so that you have nowhere to go. If you don’t have your wits about you, you could end up being inadvertently intimate with them.

  • Result: Inadvertent surprise sexual encounter, ending in abuse and possible litigation.

Aisle Bargers
Headstrong, fancy-free and armed with a complete lack of spatial awareness or depth perception, despite owning the prerequisite two eyes and (presumably,) brain, Aisle Bargers will wade clumsily down what is always a constricted gangway with gay abandon, assaulting all and sundry with limbs, bags, hips and their arse, in no particular order.

  • Result: British politeness generally means no one says anything, so they get away with it. Here’s hoping they pull that crap on the Paris Metro, or better yet, the New York subway.

The Platform Ponderer
Another close relation of the Ambler and also shares characteristics of the Sudden Stopper, the Platform Ponderer, will stop suddenly, often near a timetable screen, drop whatever they are carrying — an overladen backpack, a briefcase, a child — and stand, looking confusedly around, as if a train station is both entirely new to them and also they last place on earth they expected to find themselves after disembarking from a train journey. Normally they will find the most inconvenient place to act out their befuddlement, such as the dead centre of the platform, or again, just in front of a doorway. Sometimes they will need to catch a connection but seem to have no skillset of how to discover what platform it might be departing from, which means they can turn into a …

Last-minute Larry
With all the self-perceived importance of someone that was born into aristocracy and who is about to defuse a bomb, they have scant seconds in order to make their train and woe betide anyone who gets in their path. Last-minute Larrys have been known to take on an entire train’s worth of commuters, who are all heading in the opposite direction — cutting a running swathe through the throng like a lone hero against a rampaging hoarde of orcs.

  • Result: Carnage. Oh, the humanity.

The Bag Reserver
We’ve all done it. It’s the passive-aggressive way of signalling that you’d rather not have anyone sit next to you, thank you very much. Extra douche points if you only begrudgingly move your crap after all other seats have gone & a pregnant woman is glaring at you whilst entering the first stages of labour.

  • Result: You want another seat? Buy another ticket, jackass.

The Aisle-side Sitter
The Aisle-side Sitter takes the passive-aggressive tendencies of the Bag Reserver and skews them in favour of the latter. Sitting on the aisle side sends out the message, loudly and clearly, that you are more important than the rest of the peasants on this rolling carriage of sweaty proletariat.

  • Result: If you’re that important, shell out for first class, asshat.

The Newspaper Nuisance
An average broadsheet takes approximately half of a full arm extension to read properly. The space to the side of a train seat is about four inches. No please, rustle that shit right in my face again. I probably won’t set fire to it while you’re still holding it. Probably.

  • Result: Buy a tabloid. Or better yet, a paperback. Or a kindle. iPad. Anything.

The Table Hog
One of the most insidious types, table hogs combine the worst aspects of The Bag Reserver and, on occasion, The Aisle-Side Sitter, with poor spatial design for maximum frustrative effect. Spreading themselves out over the public transport version of an occasional table that was designed to just barely accommodate two entire cups of coffee at its widest end, provided you could balance them together, the Table Hog may also use aisle-side sitting tactics to maximise their space quotient. Typical objects to assist include bags and briefcases, as usual, but also drinks and half-eaten sandwiches — basically anything that would make you feel icky to move aside. The worst offenders sit aisle-side, put their feet on the seat opposite, their bag on the seat next their feet, food & drink on the table and are idly leafing through a magazine or business papers on the empty seat next to them, thus taking up four entire seats AND a table for one person.

  • Result: You appear to have mistaken this public-use booth for a private table you reserved at a restaurant. Dipshit.

But all of these pale in comparison to the ultimate blight to commuting:

Train Cyclists
If you’ve got a fold-up bike that you can stow away somewhere — we’re all good. You’ve already shown you’re considerate to other passengers right there. However, if you board a train with a full sized bike, you are, incontrovertibly, an asshole. You will either block the doorway & have to move it at every stop, or worse, LEAVE IT IN THE DOORWAY UNATTENDED & GO SIT DOWN, meaning other people have to negotiate their way around the damn thing in order to get on or off. And we’re all too polite to do what we should and throw the fucking thing to the floor because it’s someone else’s property, even if they care so little for it that they’re happy to balance a two- wheeled object on a moving carriage!

  • Result: Get a fold up. Or a skateboard. Or better yet, try walking so you don’t continue to be an inconvenience and a hazard to traffic and pedestrians alike once you get off.

Did I miss any? Tell me in the comments.

Moving: The Ninth Circle of Hell

The adage goes that moving is one of the most stressful things you can partake in, some of the others being listed as getting married, experiencing a bereavement and getting divorced.

Well I’ve gotten married, (I know … crazy woman!) and if my stress levels at that event were plotted on a graph, it would be akin to a minor earth tremor — a blip at best in comparison to the 7.8 magnitude stress-quake that moving house causes me.

Having never yet been divorced and hoping not to be, I can’t comment on the comparison. All I will say is that if someone correlated the divorce rate of couples and found a direct, possibly even causal link between the higher number of times they moved house during wedlock and an exponentially proportional increased likelihood of divorce, then I for one, would not be shocked at the findings.

Moving house is inherently stressful, containing as it does, all the worst parts of travel — the endless hours in cramped confinement, the boredom of the road and the possibility of soul-draining delays — without the relief of arriving somewhere new, with the intrinsic glamour of the unknown, and through all this, you have to lug all your shit. All of it.

Don’t forget that even before the actual bone-gnawingly awful moving part, you have to spend days, if not weeks, preparing. Packing your accumulated life into cardboard boxes that instantly become too heavy to lift and have inexplicably weak bottoms, like a baby or incontinent adult – their contents spilling at random all over the street or inside the car, like an overly-inebriated friend who will awake the next day wondering why everyone is mad at him.

During this packing phase you will be living essentially a pauper’s existence, sitting on lawn chairs because the sofa is already disassembled, eating leftovers off paper plates, so not to open any new food in case it suddenly spoils in transit and because the crockery is already ‘safely’ ensconced in musty old newspaper, which you’ll be tasting for days after they’ve been unpacked.
Next comes frantically cooking everything in the freezer before the move, or possibly barbecuing the entirety of the rapidly defrosting mass at the other end, convincing yourself that pawning your rotting matter onto other people who are unfortunate enough to live near the spot you blight with your existence, is somehow ‘neighbourly’. Here, eat this partially defrosted pattie of death, you proffer, which now has traces of dust, cardboard and fecal matter sealed into it by the feeble glow of a briquette — and let’s be friends. You can borrow my lawnmower, or drill, or cup of sugar, or, for the right price, an immediate member of my family.

Then, when you do reach the other end, you still have weeks of screaming:

“Where, for the love of fuck, is the (x)?”

Where (x) is some suddenly-vital-to-life-as-we-know-it MacGuffin, such as the TV remote, your blood pressure tablets, your good shoes, or the family pet, as all around you, half rummaged-through boxes lay scattered and strewn, giving your beautiful new home the Dresden look. It’ll be weeks before the house gets back to normal and there’s a good chance a few treasured items will disappear during the process too.

Even though this time we tried to do it like adults and hire a moving van with associated strong-backed men to do the hard labour, instead of making several trips with a Peugeot 306 filled to bursting, (do-able across a city, but across country? No thanks.) we miscalculated the number of boxes required to house the unimaginable tide of crap that we own, which seems to have quadrupled since the last move and at least doubled since the arrival of our progeny. That being the case, I had to drive once more back across the country, having already done it once to transport the family to the new location, fill up the car with the dregs of our belongings and then turn around and drive back again.

So I’m never moving again. I figure if we feel like a change I’ll apply to the landlord and council for permission to burn the place to the ground and build it again, brick by brick.
That has to be easier.