Here I am, in front of my computer desk, in the apartment I've lived in during the last five years. In half an hour, eight bulky guys will make their way here through my door and the maze of boxes, bags, dismantled furniture. They'll start picking things up and throwing it outside of my bedroom's window - where a lift is being arranged (I live at the fifth floor). I'll cling to my desktop with nails and teeth, swearing nobody touches it until everything else is gone.
The fact is, I do not have internet set up yet in the new house, and I know it's going to take a few days. So, to delay being cut from the outside world, I've asked that my PC station be the last thing to be moved.
The second scene is located in the new house (in the map on the right, the new house is marked by a red dot, the old one by a green dot). There, the remodeling is in its very last touches. The floor (a custom-made layer of crushed stones, flattened and polished, called "alla veneziana") needs to be given the last round of polishing and waxing; plumbers need to install the last pieces in the bathrooms; the electrician is continuing with his heroic effort (the electrical system is really complex in the new house). Carpenters are installing the last window and doors, plus a string of wood where the floor meets the walls (we call it "battiscopa"), to protect the wall when one sweeps.
Things are going to clash in some way, because as soon as the moving company is done filling a boat and transports the contents to the new house, they'll have to deal with a dozen people running around to finish the works there. If it wasn't MY house and MY stuff, I'd be quite amused at the idea of sitting back and looking at the mess.