There was a time in my not too distant past when the very prospect of kids Trick or Treating on Halloween would have had me angrily shouting about American cultural imperialism.

Maybe I’m mellowing. This past weekend the Bentleigh Shopping Centre organised a Halloween dress-up. Many participated, including my own children (though I didn’t organise it). Jeremy dressed up as a pirate. Isaac was a Dementor from Harry Potter, though the weather was warm and his all-over face mask was made of thin material through which some of his hair poked, making him a somewhat sweaty, hairy Dementor.

And earlier tonight, which is after all your actual Halloween, there was a knock at the door, and two kids dressed in costume presented themselves and proclaimed “Trick or treat!”

Did somebody tell them about my secret Freddo Frog stash or something?

Perhaps it’s just that kind of neighbourhood where the kids roam the street on Halloween. I didn’t spot their parents lurking nearby, but maybe they were crouching behind the bushes keeping an eye on things.

At least their proclamation wasn’t in an annoying or demanding tone. So I got them each a Freddo and sent them on their way.

Spotted on Friday night:

On the tram up Bourke Street, a quietly-spoken Irish couple asking how to get to Telstra Dome.

Getting off the tram, many International Rules (Australia vs Ireland) fans.

Along the Bourke Street bridge, some enthusiastically doing Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi.

Then boisterously providing a rendition of a whole chorus of We Are Australian.

Down into the station. More crowds of footy fans moving through to the game.

A steam train rolling through platform 13 with the usual impressive combination of noise and smoke, as commuters looked on with bemusement, wondering if something similar would appear for their trip home.

My new suburb is Bentleigh. It’s about 5 minutes further out of the city than my old stomping grounds of Glen Huntly or Carnegie, and certainly further into suburbia.

It’s still in zone 1. That was a requirement when house-hunting. Mind you it’s the last station in zone 1. I’m pretty close to the station, but if for some reason I wanted to catch the bus part of the way, I’d be stung for an extra zone 2 fare.

It’s very close to the Centre Road shops, with its two supermarkets, Glicks Bagels outlet, library, post office and banks. There’s even a bank of my new flavour, St George, who opened their new branch there this week. (Maybe having another Gold customer in the area convinced them to do it?)

Apparently the Centre Road shopping centre was ranked the 9th best in Melbourne in 1994. It’s still pretty good, and so far I’m enjoying living there, though Bentleigh didn’t rank highly in the Age’s recent suburb liveability survey.

This web page briefly documents how the suburb was created, but seems to mostly talk about how to escape to other places. Hmmm. There’s more history here. The name comes from Sir Thomas Bent, once premier of Victoria (and, I understand, somewhat bent himself).

My street is quiet. It’s not a dead-end, but it leads to nowhere. I’ve already had friendly greetings from several of the neighbours.

My sister is doing some marketing work for Bentleigh. So far my favourite rejected slogans are “There’s plently in Bentleigh” and “Bentleigh — it’s better than Oakleigh.”

When one thinks of Melbourne’s inner suburbs, one might imagine gentrified streets full of yuppies sipping lattes as they admire the street furniture and watch the crowds and trams pass by. But they’re not all like that.

Yesterday I journeyed into the industrial heart of Port Melbourne, to return the rental keys. Gawd knows why the (new) agents decided to put their head office out there in the middle of nowhere, so far from the residential properties they manage.

It’s a long walk from the 109 to Fennell Street. Thankfully it wasn’t raining.

I wandered down streets without any footpaths, where the car is king.

There were factories for unidentified industries, with mysterious refinery-like devices within their walls.

There was a semi-trailer, parked but its engine running, its driver in the driver’s seat, head down, asleep at the wheel.

Eventually I found the office. The two women at reception looked extremely surprised to have a visitor.

As I filled out the form, I spotted a notice referring to other offices. In more convenient, gentrified, quicker to get to, inner suburbs. (Why the hell didn’t I check that first?!)

Then I trudged back to the tram.

Call today from a representative of the agent of the property I’ve just moved out of.

“We’re just updating contact details for all our tenants. Are you still at…”

“You know I’ve ended the lease and I’m returning the keys tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Oh. … Probably not so necessary then.”

… Uncomfortable pause …

“Well, we’ll see you tomorrow then.”

In summary: it’s done. And I never have to move again. Which is good, because I have too much stuff, and I hate moving.

The plan

Possibly I was over-compensating for the last time I moved, when the movers turned up to find many as-yet unpacked boxes, and the truck headed off leaving a lot of little stuff to be moved later. The plan this time was to get friends to help move the little stuff on the Sunday, then the movers could do the furniture on the Monday.

Friday and Saturday

Friday night and Saturday, Marita and I packed many boxes of stuff. Many many boxes. We did a run of clothes and some other stuff over to the new house, then went back and packed some more. Sometime about 4pm we ran out of boxes, and headed over to her house to get some more.

Sunday

Back to my place with more boxes for more packing.

Marita pointed out how useful it is to label boxes properly, so you know later what’s in them. That’s some advice I really should have followed.

At about 11am the kids arrived, and were set to work packing their toys up — along with a well-timed clear-out of stuff they had grown out of. It’s a godsend having a young nephew to hand stuff down to. Even if he’s not quite ready, my sister can put stuff into storage for him. She says it’s all in the garage, sorted by age-group.

We broke for lunch at midday, then kept packing. Andy arrived and mowed the grass, as part of the “Here Mr Landlord, I’ve tidied everything up for you” ex-rental procedure.

I’ve helped a few friends move in the last few years: Josh & Cathy; Tony & Rae… it was time to call in the favours. My sister Susannah & Adrian came too — I didn’t actually help with their physical moving, but I was the one who signed the purchase contract in their absence. Around 1pm they started to arrive: Josh in the Festiva, Rae in her stationwagon, Susannah & Adrian in theirs. Later my mum and Peter with the ute.

I’d intended to have a shower before they all arrived. It didn’t happen, and still wearing the previous day’s clothes, as I sweated through the afternoon, I must have started to pong. But nobody said anything.

With five vehicles between us, it only took two loads each to move all the boxes down. Josh managed to pack an incredible amount of stuff into the tiny Festiva. He said it was like a TARDIS. I wasn’t watching closely, but I can only assume he didn’t pack so much stuff into it that it resembled Mr Bean’s Mini in the episode where so much stuff is in it he has to drive it by sitting on the roof.

When the last load was complete, we made cuppas for everyone using my mum’s thoughtfully provided Emergency Tea-Making And Chocolate Biscuit Kit.

After everybody had gone home, I unpacked a couple of boxes and tried out the dishwasher. It stopped midway through and started beeping, complaining of “U1″. Whatever that means. Not even Andrew’s dishwasher tips could help with that. Could be time to contact Fisher & Paykel for a manual. Rebooting and setting it back onto the rinse cycle appeared to satisfy it.

Then I headed back to the old house for one last night there with just the furniture for company. I arrived with fish’n'chips, ready to settle down on the now cushionless sofa to watch Casanova on the telly.

Then I discovered the remote control I had carefully left aside on a bookshelf had been found and packed and shipped to the new house. I couldn’t work the TV without it.

Hmm. Okay, so it would be a quiet evening reading my book.

Nope. Found, packed, shipped. D’oh!

Rather than bore myself to tears reading and re-reading the newspaper, and noting that there was no toothbrush, toothpaste or shaver left in the house, I gathered up a few more things and took another car load down, returning with the toiletries, my book and a wrench which I realised I was going to need to disconnect the washing-machine. (But I didn’t bring back a remote control; they were all buried somewhere in a huge pile of boxes.)

Monday

I awoke at 6:15am as the light streamed-in through the piss-weak blinds. (You know; the ones I’d have instantly replaced if I owned the place).

I got up, read the paper, then attempted to make myself breakfast. The only food left in the house was in the fridge. There was plenty of milk, but no breakfast cereal to enjoy it with. There was bread and crumpets, but no toaster, and no match to light the griller. I lit the oven, and heated up some bread.

Mmm mmm. Warm stale bread. With butter and jam.

The movers arrived just on 8am and proceeded to pack the truck. It wasn’t Shaun & Sean this time; but Mick and Jase. Jase was the younger of the two, did most of the talking, and later noted with approval the Gorillaz CD in my collection. Mick was an older bloke who occasionally made amusing remarks, most of which I couldn’t comprehend on the first go. They both stopped every so often for a smoko.

Each of them lifted heavy furniture solo in such a way that, frankly, left me feeling quite inadequate as a man. The only things that they resorted to carrying together or with the aid of trolleys were beds, the washing-machine, the trampoline and the filing cabinet.

As they worked, I tried to look busy. I’d be carrying some pissy little bag of coathangers to my car, and see Mick or Jase stroll by with a humungous bookshelf on one shoulder.

Things were quickly packed. Mick noted that I shouldn’t have bothered emptying chests of drawers. And they moved the filing cabinet without asking for it to be emptied. When all was packed, they headed off in the truck to the new house.

Unloading was pretty quick too, with me directing where things would go. The fridge turned out not to be so humungous as suspected, and fits into the space reasonably well. As I thought might be the case however, the kitchen table however needs downsizing; it’s too big for the space. Ditto the desk (which looks too corporate anyway).

The trampoline didn’t fit down the side footpath; a shed blocks part of the path. They looked at various options, including taking it through the house, or through a neighbour’s garden and over the fence, but nothing would work. Partial dissassembly was going to be the way to do it, but banging it with a hammer didn’t help at all. Admittedly it was a small, pathetic hammer, to which Mick made the Crocodile Dundee-esque remark “You call that a hammer?”

The solution was found when Mick noticed the cast iron water meter cover in the front garden. A couple of bangs from that and the legs of the tramp came off, and they carried it through then put it back together. Good to know those things have a use.

The aftermath

When the movers had gone, I sat down and contemplated the enormous number of boxes of stuff. About 60, many piled up in the “spare” room (aka the junk room).

I set about unpacking things, trying to work out where things should go, trying to find the essentials for the next 24 hours. I rigged up the washing-machine, but found when I turned on the tap that water went everywhere. On closer inspection, the pipe connector had split. Off to Bunnings to get a replacement. I noted on its installation instructions that it warns not to tighten it too much, nor to use tools for attaching it. Whoops.

Come the evening, the kids were home, and we kept unpacking. Tragedy struck when we couldn’t find the cables necessary to hook up the TV and VCR in time for Doctor Who. Ah well. And it was takeaway for dinner.

Many, many boxes remain packed. A number of things remain, essentially, lost in said boxes. It’ll take some time to get everything unpacked and put away.

But the move is done. It’d be nice to think the planning made it go relatively smoothly, but actually it was thanks to the efforts of Marita, Isaac, Jeremy, my mum, Peter, Susannah, Adrian, Leo, Rae, Andy, Josh and the good people at Gronows Removalists.

PS. I have too much stuff, and did I mention I hate moving?

I’ve moved.

I’m now very tired, and have a headache. But I’ve moved.

More later.

Unexpected day at home today: I felt sick overnight, and didn’t sleep at all well. Possibly a repeat of my last house move.

Checked the fridge to find I was out of my preferred “feeling sick” drink, lemonade. Thankfully Marita was on hand to get some from the milkbar down the street.

Just as last time (and invariably when I feel off-colour), a good up-chuck had me feeling better about 11am. Noisy as ever.

Have been using the day to continue packing, which as ever is a way bigger job than I thought.

This afternoon I took the Mail Redirection form to the post office. This is something I should have done about a week ago, but it didn’t quite happen. I got the form filled-in, and since this applies to company mail, dug around and found my Common Seal (sounds like a zoo exhibit) and Certificate of Registration.

I got down to the post office to find a queue of about 25 people, almost out to the door. Sigh. Many people paying bills and various other activities that could be more efficiently done elsewhere. A few were buying actual postage, mind you.

Eventually got to the front and got the form handed in.

Right, enough of this sitting at the computer. Back to packing. Have I mentioned I have too much stuff?