The Courier-Mail - QWeekend


- Mel Buttle is a Brisbane comedian

“I’ve moved house a lot, so I have a rock-solid system for a successful move.”

Think you’re settled in your relationsh­ip? Ready to lock things in and put a ring on it? I urge you to carry a queensize mattress down a flight of stairs then see how you feel about each other. Don’t waste money on premarriag­e counsellin­g, nothing reveals everyone’s true colours quite like moving heavy furniture under the humid Queensland sun.

Moving house is a double-edged sword, it’s fun and exciting to be starting again somewhere new, but it’s also a full day of manual labour that will push your relationsh­ip to its limit.

There’s more to moving house than simply relocating your items from the old house to the new house.

Once you’re at the new place, you enter into a battle royale about where your things are going to be located in the house, versus where your partner’s, lesser, not-as-good things will be housed.

It goes without saying that I think I have exceptiona­l taste, so naturally I want all my art work and precious things in the living room.

However, my partner doesn’t think that my high school rowing awards belong in such a high-visibility location. I disagree, I think our guests should know that more than 20 years ago, I won five Head of the River titles. My other half thinks this phenomenal achievemen­t of mine belongs in a drawer.

I’ve moved house a lot, so I have a rock-solid system for a successful move.

Upon arrival at the new house, I put all the boxes in their relevant rooms, then live out of them for about three months, or until the box rips and I have no choice but to put things away properly. Eurgh, I hate being an adult.

Is the moving the worst bit, or the packing? I’m averse to any form of manual labour so, for me, they both suck.

Packing turns you into a fiend, searching high and low for boxes. You find yourself sneaking around the back of shops, hunting for the primo boxes.

I’m all over Facebook asking friends who’ve moved recently for any spares, it becomes an all-encompassi­ng mission to find good boxes. You know what I mean by good boxes? Sealable, strong and large, the dream.

This is my last summer move, there’s not enough Gatorade in Brisbane to replenish the fluids I lost carting dresser drawers and coffee tables up two flights of stairs.

As a budget-conscious mover, I take all the small things myself, and leave the fridge, beds, couches and television for the removalist­s.

My next move, whenever it may be, will occur in winter, on that really cold day we get in Brisbane sometime in June, that one day when you need to wear a jumper and a T-shirt underneath.

Hopefully by then I will be rich enough to allow the removal company to take the small stuff too. What lofty dreams I have.

I’ll try to stay grounded. It’s hard though, as I am a five-time Head of the River champion. I am! I have proof, it’s in a drawer in the office.

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