The secret to a good house move revealed: Mel Buttle

Moving house in the middle of a Queensland summer is the worst possible thing to do, Mel Buttle says, but this tip will help.

I’m doing the worst possible thing you can do in summer – move house. Wait, it gets worse. In Queensland. Moving is a perfect storm of all my weak points: organisation, stress management and manual labour.

I do have some strengths: finding the cheapest packet of beef mince in the pile first go; when we’re watching a recorded TV show I’m gifted at fast-forwarding the ads for the exact time before the program restarts; and estimating how long it will take to get anywhere in Brisbane in peak hour, or not.

I digress. Once you’re at the new place you can either be the person who puts boxes in rooms, or the person who says where they go, the latter being the prime job. To try and establish this role as soon as the car stops, you must be second out of the car, not first. The first person out of the car will open the boot and start carrying boxes, assuming you will do the same. If you just take a few more seconds to hop out, they might be halfway up the stairs, thus allowing you to take on the dream role of the unloader.

Be the person directing the boxes to their new location, not the one carrying them.

All you have to do now is plonk the boxes on the driveway and give a firm direction, “That’s to go in the kitchen, please”, which leaves the moving greenhorn to lug your possessions upstairs and into their rightful location while you stay in the one spot dropping boxes in clumps on the driveway.

Ever seen a dad packing a car for a road trip? It’s the reverse engineering of this same system. “Go and get me all the big things, quick, off you go!” You’re in a flap running Eskys and suitcases out to him like you’re in some sort of relay, while he sips his coffee and listens to the car radio in peace.

Packing to move is an emotional battle between keeping treasures and going the full Marie Kondo.

As a seasoned mover, I’ve learnt that you have to be cutthroat with your things. Have you used it in the past six months? Could it be useful to someone else? Could you sell it? If it’s three nos, then sorry, but it isn’t coming to the new house. There’s no negotiation. Even if you plan to turn over a new leaf and get back into camping. Hint, you won’t. I’ve been down this path with a tent and portable gas stove.

I’ve made an exception for my “memory clothes”, which are pieces of clothing from high school sport, or amateur theatre plays. I’m allowing myself to move these under the guise of, “I’ll get them framed and put them up in the new house”. I did indeed perform in many an amateur theatre play, which now seems like a huge waste of my 20s.

Mel Buttle.

Someone should’ve told me to give up on acting and instead pour my time into learning how to renovate houses and do my own tax. Perhaps I’d be in my forever home by now, and not scrolling real estate websites until I lose feeling in my thumb.

I’m currently in the pre-packing cleanse stage of moving. I’m selling things on Marketplace, racing home to hand over six used wine glasses to someone in the driveway for $10. It must look a bit suspect to the neighbours but I assure you I’m only dealing in used baby equipment and kitchenware I now hate.

I’m the personification of a ’90s commercial for discount rugs: I’m opening kitchen cupboards saying to no one but myself, “all this has got to go!”

I have one moving day tradition that is a stayer though, night one in any new house is fish and chips for dinner. It’s something to look forward to after spending the day hauling boxes in the Queensland sun. It’s also a great dinner because I have the organisational skills of a toddler and forget to get the power connected. There’s nothing like camping. Lucky I didn’t end up selling that gas stove, hey?