I know they espouse it in all the self improvement programs and on infomercials on TV, but when you are standing in a room filled with 50 boxes of varying sizes (from a box that held chocolate bars to four 19" monitor boxes) and you STILL haven't finished packing, it's time to simplify, simplify, simplify.

Even the removalists suggested it as they lugged my stuff out down one flight of stairs and in up another two.

Actually, they couldn't figure out how one little person had so much junk...

As I have been unpacking, I have been creating a two piles. One pile is the 'this is no good, it's rubbish and must be thrown away' pile. The other is the 'I haven't touched this since I last moved, there is nothing wrong with it and I'll give it to charity' pile.

They are both very big.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I should have thought of that BEFORE I moved so I didn't have to pack it and the poor removalists didn't have to lug it all around. But I was set in my little ways. The eviction notice was the universe's way of giving me a slap around the face and teaching me not to be so complacent about things.

Harsh, but fair. It's easy to become lazy.

I'm not saying I won't fall into another rut, but I'll know what to expect when I do.

Oh, and the second thing I learned?

Provide beer for your removalists when they are done. They undercharge you spectacularly. [grin]

Wednesday and Thursday were a horrible blur of delivering draft documentation to a client and preparing and delivering a day-long presentation to a room full of people. A presentation I had not written and knew little, if anything about. Well, the documents were delivered and the presentation... well, I got rave reviews for my delivery, but the material is just shite. And I only have a day scheduled to rework it before I deliver it again to a bigger roomful of people in Las Vegas the following week.

Eeep.

Friday was just me head down, tail up, working like there was no tomorrow. I had a gigantic e-commerce website to document for developers that had to be complete by today and only two hands to type with.

Saturday.

Oh yes. Saturday.

Saturday almost failed to have a single redeeming feature.

I don't know about anyone else, but I HATE house hunting. I hate showing up at a real estate agent to find that the property I want to look at has been leased, or someone else has the key already or you have to make an appointment to inspect it during working hours. (Hello, why do you think they call them WORKING hours? You think I'd be looking on a Saturday if I didn't work?)

And if you do get hold of the keys, it looks less like the photo and more like the cubby you tried to build in the backyard with blankets and dining room chairs.

And if you tried to fit your washing machine in the bathroom (where the laundry taps are located) then you couldn't get out of the shower and your knees would be mooshed up against the machine while you go to the loo.

Or 'freshly painted' means that someone has smeared eyeball-tearing aqua across the walls in a vain attempt to hide the rising damp.

Or 'period decorating' means 70s.

House hunting is depressing.

So try it in the rain. With a brother who is separating from his partner of two years. And an aunt who keeps harping on that you'll NEVER find something that you want in this area for the price you can afford.

Justifiable homicide, your honour.

But Saturday did have one redeeming feature. One apartment that only needed a glance in the bathroom, kitchen and lounge before I was asking for an application form. Minutes before a happy couple asked for a form too...

Sunday: Spent almost entirely on my knees praying to the deities of real estate.

Monday: A public holiday. A day of rest? Not a chance. I was at work.

Tuesday: Work, work, work. 12 solid hours of typing. And one phone call.

"Hi, this is Kylie from the real estate agent. Do you have any pets?"
"No."
"Then it's yours."

YES! Calloo, callay! Frabjoyous fucking day!

Wednesday: Work, work, work. Blue screen of death after blue screen of death. I hate computers. Handing over VAST sums of money for rent and bond and other archaic real estate rituals.

Today: Disconnect electricity, gas, water and phone from my old place. Reconnect electricity, gas, water and phone to new place. Scratch that. Previous tenants haven't disconnected the phone. I can't be connected until they are disconnected. Grr.

Ring previous real estate agent to get most of my rent back. VeryModern was an inspiration to me in dealing with them. They didn't stand a chance.

Organise mail to be redirected.

Hire two brawny men and a truck. And then hire removalists. [grin]

Beg for boxes to put stuff in.

Blog.

So here I am.

Between now and Saturday, I need to pack my life into boxes, move and contact everyone I know to let them know they won't find me where they used to find me.

And after that, I think I might sit down and have a nice cup of tea.

Literally dozens of new apartment blocks have been built around me recently. The landlord (may lobster-sized boils plague his arse for the remainder of his days) must have found out the exorbitant amount of rent they are charging and decided to slap a little paint on and cash in. But to do that, he needs to evict everyone from the building. Including my brother, who lives upstairs.

Sigh.

Granted, I have my health, my family and my friends. But I have no money to move, no time to look for a new house and absolutely no fucking inclination to do so anyway because I adore my little piece of the world.

I think I'm going to cry.

That is all.

[end blatant plea for sympathy and snuggles]

It's true. And you would be amazed at how many of us are out there. It's a problem society refuses to face. It's swept under the carpet, ignored by politicians and the media. No one wants to admit to a deep yearning to throw on sequins, seed and bugle beads.

For me it began so innocuously. Like so many others, I was lured in by the promises of learning an ancient art form or getting in touch with your inner goddess. Perhaps it was offered as fun and fitness or as an intriguing hobby. But those of us deep in the subculture know, belly dancing is not about ancient art forms, it's not about honouring your inner goddess or even your inner houri and it certainly has nothing to do with fun or fitness.

It's all about the sequins.

Some people try to legitimise it by taking up ballroom dancing, as if that added a veneer of respectability to their addiction. Others blatantly revel in their depravity, becoming showgirls or carnival dancers. The rest of us, we shelter under the exotic banner of Middle Eastern dance and history.

"This is the oldest dance form known to mankind!"
"We're preserving a fast disappearing cultural heritage!"
"It's sensual and natural and a beautiful way to express yourself!"

Denial.

It's not just a river in Egypt, Cleopatra.

I knew what I was getting into from my first class. I knew that, before the end of term, I would be hunched in front of the TV, frantically attaching every sequin I could lay my hand on to bras, belts, skirt hems, anything that would sit still long enough. I would send myself blind threading bugle beads onto dental floss (impossible to break and minty fresh!) to create metres of fringing. I would scream in frustration as I tipped over a dish of seed beads for the hundredth time and have to scurry around on hands and knees picking the damn things out of the carpet.

I knew. I didn't walk into this an innocent.

I just didn't realise how slippery the slope really was.

It was second term when my teacher let me try on one of her professionally beaded costumes. We're talking nothing less than 2 kilos/4 pounds in weight for the bra and the belt.

Each.

So heavily were they encrusted with beading that sections were half an inch thick.

I put on the bra. I clasped the belt low around my hips.

I shimmied.

It was GLORIOUS!

The susurrus of the fringing, the swing of the beads, the weight it gave my movements. There was no turning back.

I walked out and began spending quantities of money on beaded costumes that I would ordinarily reserve for white goods or airfares. Beaded hip scarves, bra and belt sets, sequined skirts that beggared belief.

But nothing could satiate my need.

Headpieces, jewellery, beaded slippers... I couldn't get enough.

So now I find myself here, in your hands.

Perhaps I will serve as nothing more than a warning to those more innocent than I. But perhaps there is hope. Perhaps I can be cured. And then I can start on my other addiction. You see, I have ADS. Attention Deficit Syndrome.

A deficit of your attention, not mine.

I'm an attention slut too.