That is the only word which can adequately describe the events of the past few days.

Clusterfuck is a military term for an operation where a series of things have gone wrong. Its military roots are especially appropriate here seeing as last weekend had been planned like a MILITARY OPERATION.

Friday night I would spend at the family home for the final time, doing last bits of sorting and packing and having an early night in order to wake up bright and early on Saturday morning to pick up the rental van and spend the next twelve hours moving house which everybody knows is one of life’s most stressful events and should only be undertaken when as rested and prepared as possible.

So at 9pm on Friday night I decide that what I must do, what I absolutely MUST do right now is go to the pub and spend several hours drinking enough bad red wine to fill a medium-sized rental van.

This was the first wrong thing.

The second wrong thing was my decision to stagger home alone, in my flimsy flip-flops, gawping at my phone, sending incredibly meaningful and legible text messages to a friend until I SMACKED face-first into a tree.

The next morning I look like this:


At which point I establish that going to bed last night after a cursory mopping-up of profuse bleeding with loo roll, hoping it would somehow be miraculously healed by morning, instead of going straight to the hospital, was the third wrong move, as my close encounter with a tree clearly needs medical attention and had I sought that medical attention last night I would by now be travelling in a rental van on my way to my new home and not in Gwyneth’s car on my way to the A&E department where I receive many, many stitches and a heavy lecture about the perils of mixing flip-flops with Rioja.

When I explain to the lovely maxillofacial surgeon that I am moving house today after separating from my husband of twenty years, he helpfully remarks that perhaps the Gods have sent me a sign that I am making a terrible mistake. I do not respond to this arseholery. I cannot because he has a needle stuck in my lip.

After which, I look like this:


I cannot WAIT to meet my new neighbours…

The rest of the day is spent watching Gwyneth and a friend load and unload the van while I curl up in a variety of corners shaking violently. I might have been a bit shaky anyway, considering I was MOVING OUT OF OUR FAMILY HOME BECAUSE MY MARRIAGE IS OVER but the clusterfuckery of the last few hours means this is mainly a post-Rioja tremble with a double chaser of shock and agony.

That night I sleep not in my new home, but back in my old home, bleeding all over a pillow in eldest’s bed because I cannot be left alone in case I have a convulsion.

Way to start my new life, right?

The next morning I look like this:


We continue to load and unload the van all day whilst I become gradually more wobbly and emotional. What was I thinking imagining I could manage my life on my own? I NEED Gwyneth. If I leave him I will become (even more) alcoholic and open-woundy.

I spend a second night back in my old house.

Monday brings wrong thing number four in this clusterfuck when I realise that youngest is going back to school the following day and I have failed to purchase a single item of uniform, including new shoes and also have no idea which box his bookbag might be in.

This leads me straight into wrong thing number five when I decide that instead of going shopping for uniform I will loll about in my new home deciding where to place my favourite cushions ending up at 1am tearing open every single box in search of ONE MOTHERFUCKING SCHOOL SHIRT THAT ISN’T SO GREY AS TO BE OBVIOUSLY LAST YEAR’S.

But at least my face is healing, look:


Tuesday he goes to school. I breathe. My face may still be mangled and I can only consume liquids and no booze due to antibiotics, but I am getting better, look:


Also, this new house is just SO lovely. We are firmly ON THE UP here! Oooh, I know, I’ll surprise Dex after school by getting Fangs the hamster from the old house and bringing him here.

And this is where the clusterfuckery becomes unprecedented.

I peer into the cage. Fangs looks like this:


Fangs never looks like this. Fangs is a ninja hamster. Fangs hangs from the roof and scales the walls of his cage. Fangs makes us laugh every day and sleeps only in his special blue house-bed.

Fangs is clearly dying.

And this boy of mine whose OCD has been re-triggered by his mother’s frighteningly foul face, whose Tourette’s ticks are louder and more frequent than ever, triggered by living in this new, strange house with this new, strange mother who cannot deliver soothing smiles and cannot kiss away tears; this boy must now say goodbye to his best friend.

If the last few days really had been a military operation, I would be facing a court martial.

And if there really is a God, he’s taking an awfully special interest in trying to Fuck. My. Life.

On the upside, at least my mashed-up face will keep me off Tinder for a coupla weeks…

Also: the new house really is lovely.

Things can only get better, right?

RIP Fangs, you were my kinda hamster…