Moving

Did it move for you?  Someone might ask, or someone else may say, "get moving", or just the simple "move it, but let me tell you, moving from one house to another is not fun at my age. It is frightening and should only be done if nothing else is available. I mean, it won't matter when they move me to the hole in the ground, or to the retirement home for the daft drovers and stunned station hands, but have a few senses left - moving house is for the birds.

I have lost a goodly part of my life, my sanity, my friendships and my bank account on account of this account.

Ya' know, I had no trouble moving house when I was droving or working on stations, it was only when I set down roots that I started to gather encumberances around me, like a wife and kids and all the garbage that goes with that combination.

When I was droving I moved  house every night. I woke up, rolled the swag, the cook loaded it on the truck with the other blokes' swags and that night you were in a new 'home'.  Now that is simple, hey?

Even working in the shearing sheds,  your 'house' consisted of a room in some quarters somewhere on the Outback plains, and your possessions were the swag and a few bits of tattered clothing. Never a spare pair of boots or an extra hat, as they were extras, as mentioned.

So now that I have moved house, using a moving truck would you beleive, and I am without the burden of the encumbent wife, and even if I weren't, the kids would not be around when the move took place in case they were designated to help.

I am now a massive four mile from where I was before; a bit like droving, I suppose. Sheep do not move that fast if you let 'em rest up.

One thing that I am happy about - I am just as close to you people that I talk to, and that is great. I am still pushed around by the delightful publisher of mine, the sweet Fiona Gatt.  If you think I am only crawling, I won't argue wiff' ya.