Ellie had 22 boxes. I counted them twice in my parents' hallway in Chesterfield at 9.15 on Saturday morning, because I'm still counting boxes from our own move, and ours was 58. "That's what it looks like when you own the right amount of stuff," she said. She is nineteen and has never lost an argument about anything.
She was moving into a shared flat in Headingley, the top floor of a converted Victorian house, with two friends from her physiotherapy course. It took three vehicles: Steve and Jackie in their car with Ellie, Matt and me in the Fiesta, and Kev out in front with the trailer, having volunteered on the phone before anyone asked. I'd like to say a trailer for 22 boxes was overkill. It also carried a desk chair, a bike and a floor lamp, so it wasn't.
What I copied from our move
I had been waiting about eighteen months to be useful. These are the things I made her do, in the order she complained about them.
- Meter photos on the first afternoon. The gas and electricity meters are in a cupboard on the landing. "It's a cupboard, Chlo," said Ellie. I said it was evidence. We photographed both with the date showing and sent them to the letting agent that evening.
- Check-in photos of every room: the stain on the bedroom carpet, a cracked line of bathroom sealant, a yoghurt in the fridge with a date in March. There were 143 photos, emailed with a covering note. The yoghurt is my favourite.
- The deposit. Her share was £460, paid on 3 July when they signed. The landlord has 30 days to protect it in an approved scheme and send the details, so 3 August is in her phone as "check deposit". I will be texting on the 3rd.
- A box marked FIRST NIGHT: a kettle, three mugs, teabags, a loo roll, phone chargers, a duvet set and a head torch.
- Bills. One of the three holds the energy account and the other two pay in by standing order on the first of the month, so nobody has to chase anyone. I offered a spreadsheet and was told they have a group chat.
- The dull stuff. Jackie rang the home insurer, who said Ellie's things at her term-time address are covered up to a limit, with a lower one for any single item, and the laptop is near it. The TV licence rules turn on what you watch and whether the tenancy is joint or separate, so the three of them are reading the TV Licensing page themselves.
What I didn't copy
Kev didn't copy anything, but he did bring the drill. He counts as a tradesperson when he's holding one, and he looked at Ellie's bedroom wall like a man who'd been personally insulted by it. "No drilling in a rented flat, Kev," I said, and he put it back in the car. She has adhesive hooks instead. He watched them go up as if I were doing a magic trick.
The street is a maze of permit bays, so we did what the van did on our moving day: hazard lights on, trailer half on the kerb, and everything up three flights of communal stairs in forty minutes. Nobody was fined. I stopped breathing at about box 14.
The thing I'd change
I forgot bin bags. I thought of the kettle, the chargers and the torch, but the flat's one bin already held someone else's takeaway cartons and there was nothing to put them in. Matt found a carrier bag in the Fiesta. Next time a roll of bin bags goes in the box, and I'll write BIN BAGS on the lid in capitals so even Ellie can't miss it.
At 8.40 that night my phone buzzed. "where did u put the teabags". They were in the box marked FIRST NIGHT, which she had pushed to the back of the wardrobe because the label embarrassed her. I replied with a photo of the label.
