It Just Got Real

 

And so on Wednesday the Adventure Proper began. A removal van turned up at our flat. 

I had secured a parking suspension outside for them, but unfortunately some miscreant had parked a car overnight right in the middle of the bay. While I attempted to assure the removal crew that I really had got it all under control, a traffic warden arrived, and , sensing the gravity of the situation, radioed for a crane to come and forcibly remove the offending vehicle. 

What a shame we never got to experience the drama of an Audi A3 dangling from a gantry, as its owner appeared at that very moment. He was a builder from a neighbouring site, and displayed the calmest response to a parking ticket I’ve ever seen, departing with a shrug like a cockney character from a 1940s film (“That’s taught me a lesson an’ no mistake”).

In came the removers and set to work, packing into boxes anything that stayed still for five seconds, and dismantling anything bigger than a box. I had that tricky job of having nothing to do but worry, and trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Especially tricky for me as I find watching one’s life being packed into cartons traumatic in the extreme. I experience a physical discomfort, as if someone’s hand is grabbing my entrails and tugging them urgently – sorry if you were enjoying your breakfast, but if you want to live through the move with us, you get my entrails with your poached egg.

It happens when we pack to go on holiday as well. By the time we’ve reached our destination I experience my whole personality lying in shreds on the floor of the hire car. Maybe that’s why I found a Singles’ Holidays brochure on Helen’s desk. But I digress. We had reached that time of the day where lots more removal people suddenly descend and blast their way through the flat, typhoon like. I had no choice but to sit and agonise.

The day we depart for our wonderful new life in the country - artist's impression

The joy of being a removals person must lie in the opportunity to delve into the minutiae of people’s lives. Rifling through their bedroom drawers, examining the contents of their food cupboard… What a way to spend a day at work. But then there is the lifting and carrying, which puts me off.

The loaded van departed for a depot somewhere in South London. I loitered in the flat taking timestamped photos of the new tenants’ furniture (no, me neither, but the letting agent told me to. Before you ask with a smug expression, no, if they told me to jump off a cliff I wouldn’t; my obedience threshold lies somewhere between cliff jumping and timestamped photos taking). I pulled myself together, wished our erstwhile home farewell, and locked up.

I drove to Taunton listening to England beat Denmark, and arrived at our house to find scaffolding everywhere, the living room shrouded in dust sheets and two out-of-action bathrooms. As therapy for someone who finds moving traumatic, it was not what you’d call ideal. A tetchy message to the bathroom company owner yielded the reply he had told my wife the new shower room wouldn’t be functional till the following evening; had she not told me? I told him emphatically that any suggestion we never speak in term time was laughable, and made a mental note should we have a marital argument in the near future. In case you were worried about me having to wee out of the window, by the way, we do have a separate toilet that was out of the clutches of the bathroom company.

The following morning the removers arrived, and after much fun and games trying to reverse through our gate, settled for blocking the carriageway instead. I took them on a tour of the house, remembered half way round they couldn’t give a monkey’s about where the waterwheel was when it was a mill, or the spectacular camelia tree that erupts in the spring, and focused instead on telling them what each room was called. All was fine till we got to “spare bedroom 2”, destined to be the repository for all the furniture from our Putney main bedroom, and discovered the entire carpet covered with bathroom flooring. A tetchy message to the bathroom company owner yielded the reply it was going to be fitted in the bathroom tomorrow, and he had assumed this room would remain empty. I held back from a passive aggressive quotation of the old adage “to ASSUME makes an ASS of U and ME” and settled for snarling “Well your guys are going to have to build the bed then” and throwing the phone down–before remembering that mobile phones don’t hang up when thrown down. Still, I don’t think the removal crew noticed. They got to work. 

Now I had the opposite problem to the pack and load day: instead of having nothing to do but be around just in case, I was now faced with a decision to make about every item that came through the door.

“Where you want this?”

“What is it”

“Says Bedroom”

“Right. You see it might go in the bedroom, or the dressing room, or maybe in the spare room.”

“So where you want it?”

“Oh, er just put it down there and I’ll deal with it later.”

And so it went on. I just wanted everyone to go so I could wander round taking deep breaths. Just when I thought I might get some time alone, the bathroom guy turned up.

“Sorry for any mix up over the shower commissioning” (great word “commissioning” – so much more expensive than “installation”).

“No problem” (Yes, I go Low Status when it comes to an opportunity for playing hardball). “So will I be able to use the shower tonight?”

“No, unfortunately, you have to wait for the sealant to dry, which will be 24 hours.”

“When did the plumber put it on?”

“Lunchtime.”

“So tomorrow lunchtime I can have a shower?” I moved to within nose range, that he might sense for himself the urgency of the situation.

“Unfortunately not; we’ve got the flooring guys coming to lay the floor.”

I made a mental note to spend Friday curled up on the bedroom carpet waiting for it all to be over.  Or I suppose I could ask the decorators if I can spend a day with them. They’ve been here so long, they’re like family. They tease each other genially and vie to get the highest score on Ken Bruce’s “Popmaster” quiz. It seems a good, simple, unpretentious life for a London emigré. But then there’s the painting and wallpapering, which puts me off rather.

I wait anxiously for the sealant to dry

I got my time alone finally, contemplating the chaos of  boxes and the scaffolding that prevents any door to the garden being opened, rendering savagely difficult the house training of our soon-to-arrive puppy.

The move to Somerset? Oh, I’m really excited about it. Why do you ask?