Moving - 3/3

0815, Monday morning.

Moving day. We didn't set alarms, relying foolishly on F's regular wake ups to get us up on time. But the clocks went back yesterday, and no amount of explaining this prevented her getting up dead on her previous schedule.

So we've been up since four. A quick feed, a quick play, then we all lie on the mattress in the bedroom together and try and get what sleep we can. The bed has been taken apart, ready to be removed. F thinks this is interesting, so she doesn't want to sleep much.

She wants to kick me in the face affectionately for two hours instead. At one point, she grabs my beard with both hands and yanks herself over to me so she can give me a big kiss. In my heart of hearts, I know how sweet this is. Sweet, sweet pain.

When V realises it's past eight, and that the removal men might already be coming up the stairs, and that we're all lying around in various states of undress with packing still undone, things start moving fairly quickly.

She goes into overdrive, packing with a kind of focussed, furious speed that reminds me of early Jackie Chan movies. I've just finished shovelling porridge into F when the removal guys arrive. Three of them, two tall gangly guys and a shorter, stouter, older one who's already wheezing coming up two floors, even though they took the lift. It's like the two-and-a-half stooges.

- You've got a lot of stuff for a small flat, the tallest and most gangly one says. It's the tone of voice mechanics use for the parts of the engine that need to be ordered from abroad.

The original plan was to let them into the house, then retire to a decent cafe and eat a langorous breakfast. Instead, I'm bouncing F (who seems delighted that someone is taking all the pesky boxes out of her house at last) around while V blurs from room to room, stuffing boxes and swearing at intense velocity.

Breakfast is cancelled for now. Swiftly, I am dismissed from the flat. This is a sensible thing, because F needs to be out of the way and someone has to go with her. But because I'm exhausted and hungry, I take offense, and stomp round the city centre in a huff, muttering nonsense into my beard about being sidelined. Any wise man would be delighted to get out of the final, awful stress of packing. I am no such thing.

Appropriately, it's pouring with heavy, dismal rain. Eventually, I calm down and head over to the new flat, where I am supposed to await developments. Here, I find there is no functioning bathroom, as the firm we rent from are renovating it in a hurry. According to the offical terms, we aren't supposed to move in for another five days, but we've got an early deal because otherwise I'd have to go and work in the UK about five minutes after the furniture arrives.

As I sit on the cold and barren floor, F immediately fills her nappy with something indescribable, and laughs merrily into my face as I deal with it.

Many, many hours later (well, okay, about four. But it feels like a lot longer, mostly because we end up doing lots of plodding around in the rain while the removal guys finish up), we're in.

And despite my temper tantrums, it's been relatively painless. There are some new holes in the back of the liquor cabinet we weren't quite expecting, but, as the saying goes, you can't make an omlette without punching holes in your Billy Bookshelf. V and I are friends again, i.e. bickering cheerfully.

Most importantly, F is entirely delighted with her new house.

It's got windows! With views of trees! And big silver handles you can hold on to while Daddy keeps you steady on the window ledge! And long hallways that you can really use to get some proper momentum in your baby stroller!  And all the boxes are here now too!

Of all of us, F has used the stress of moving most productively. She's started talking, saying 'titta!' to get our attention where it's needed (Swedish for 'look!' as opposed to 'breasts!', although the two can therefore occasionally be used synonymously). She has started standing up by herself, although this is still a short-lived state of affairs that requires attentive ground crew close at hand.

But most triumphantly of all, she has started feeding herself with a spoon. The correct end of it, and everything.

We have moved to a bigger house. The future has attractive views of an artillery fort, and is all the brighter for it.