Came home and let myself in to the denuded next door, because it's not yet denuded of its alcohol, and had a few fingers of gin with the last of my elderflower tonic water, which helped. Joe the Mover, another TO institution whose original moved me several times in the 70s, came this morning in a humoungous truck to take all the leftover furniture to the cottage. I side-eyed it a bit, cause a) it was bigger than the truck they had for the main move b) the cottage is on top of a hill with must be a 40° grade and c) it snowed last night. In the event, truck didn't make it up the hill because there are electric wires at the top that the truck wouldn't fit under. Storage company in town was closed so they unloaded it all into the neighbour's bottom of the hill garage awaiting a smaller van tomorrow. Bro was still in the unheated unwinterized waterless cottage when I called him at 7 pm. I hope neighbour put him up for the night, or at least that he went and crashed at our cousins' place half an hour away. But I have a horrible feeling he's going to man it out just to prove a point.
There's a reason moving is considered one of the big four stressors in life. Can't believe I did it on average every 18 months in my giddy youth.