the big day...
...came and left in a blink. Before noon, we realized that the movers underestimated severely the amount of stuff, and got packing as seriously as they were. It's not what one expects when one pays a fortune to be moved by others, but one doesn't have a lot of time and is used to picking up the pieces when others fuck up. I caught a glance of the party at the Croatian embassy across the old flat when I popped into the street to see how the movers planned to sort out having a van taller than the gate to our courtyard, having ignored our warnings. They didn't quite find a solution at that point.
Madness followed. Around 1 p.m., having packed without a pee break since 8 a.m. or so, the chief mover stated that he stopped counted boxes, as there must've been a hundred already. This, mind you, after our cleaner packed all books beforehand, and we packed the majority of two rooms. They were still struggling with kitchen and lounge. We had to be out by 3pm the latest, and into the new flat with EVERYTHING by 5pm the latest. That last bit didn't quite work out. But on the ride home I spotted that Regent's Place, a terrifyingly ugly complex of buildings across Euston Road from Conway Street was looking much better than expected, and hoped for the best.
I guided the gate to the courtyard afterwards, sitting on a broken, discarded office chair for lack of ability to feel my feet, and tried not to get pissed off with the bad planning and slow progress. The movers were dead tired, hadn't eaten, hadn't had the right support from headquarters, so we all carried on the best we could. After everything that could go in went in, there was a bed assembled and a not-so-cheery prospect of a second moving day on the Sunday when we planned to open some boxes and chill. Teddy was happiest of all, looking down a new street, as he does.
So not much drinking of cava of late. Have unpacked the terrace boxes of empty pots, lit the new Ikea candles in the new Ikea holders (don't buy the square one, waste of money and time), and tried not to worry too much about tomorrow or the majority of our belongings spending the night in somebody's warehouse. What? The World Cup? You must be kidding me!
Madness followed. Around 1 p.m., having packed without a pee break since 8 a.m. or so, the chief mover stated that he stopped counted boxes, as there must've been a hundred already. This, mind you, after our cleaner packed all books beforehand, and we packed the majority of two rooms. They were still struggling with kitchen and lounge. We had to be out by 3pm the latest, and into the new flat with EVERYTHING by 5pm the latest. That last bit didn't quite work out. But on the ride home I spotted that Regent's Place, a terrifyingly ugly complex of buildings across Euston Road from Conway Street was looking much better than expected, and hoped for the best.
I guided the gate to the courtyard afterwards, sitting on a broken, discarded office chair for lack of ability to feel my feet, and tried not to get pissed off with the bad planning and slow progress. The movers were dead tired, hadn't eaten, hadn't had the right support from headquarters, so we all carried on the best we could. After everything that could go in went in, there was a bed assembled and a not-so-cheery prospect of a second moving day on the Sunday when we planned to open some boxes and chill. Teddy was happiest of all, looking down a new street, as he does.
So not much drinking of cava of late. Have unpacked the terrace boxes of empty pots, lit the new Ikea candles in the new Ikea holders (don't buy the square one, waste of money and time), and tried not to worry too much about tomorrow or the majority of our belongings spending the night in somebody's warehouse. What? The World Cup? You must be kidding me!
Labels: home affairs, lovely uk
OR Not Quite What I Was Planning, Revised and Expanded Deluxe Edition: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure 
and 
comments
links here
Create a Link
Homepage