Moving Happy Bunny

This is how I found my best friend when I walked into her living room the other day:

Yes. She was supposed to be packing but then decided climbing into one of the wardrobe boxes would be a better idea. Something I completely understand from the times I have moved myself. When all that's left are those random items you aren't even sure that you want, there is little choice but to take drastic action and get stuck in a box from which it is impossible to extract yourself and pack. I made myself useful by labeling everything "Fragile" and then insisting everyone pronounce it "Frag-eel-eh".

We woke up the next morning to torrential rain which formed a river outside the front door to the building, in which my sisters flip-flop dis-engaged from her foot and floated away. This was immediately accompanied by a fire alarm. (Floating flip-flop can't be shown because nobody in The Green Room wears shoes, but you can imagine it, I am sure).

And finally, after moving comes the moment when you open your kitchen boxes and lie down flat on the floor at a complete loss as to where the sandwich press that is impossible to clean properly is supposed to fit when you also need to fit a blender, a crock pot, all your food and that ugly vase your distant relative gave you.

But in the end, Happy Bunny was pretty happy in her first Hosue (which is what we call houses, as we both type too fast to ever spell house properly), and my sister and I made her bed, like all good best friends do on moving days, to prevent anyone crying themselves to sleep on a now-tearstained bare mattress that they were too exhausted to make up after a day of chaos.

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