A Moving Tale
Peter O'Phile Warning:
This account includes the death of a goldfish.
It is recommended that those of a piscophilic nature step away now.
I have always hated moving house. The only redeeming feature of the stress and effort required is getting to cruise around in a Transit van. The worst of these times I have experienced involved myself and SB's move from our Clifton residence. A trial exacerbated by my being away in some foreign country the week before thus leaving the final arrangements with SB - a task I was uneasily aware of his ineptitude for.
Arriving back in the UK around 5pm the day before our move, I received a text from SB - "house fell through, I'm staying with X". Repeated attempts to get in touch with SB failed. Arriving in Nottingham around an hour later SB revealed that my period of intense stress had been a ruse on his part and the coast was clear for our relocation the next day. I could also see preparations for moving had not gone to plan. A couple of hours of intense tidying later we were in better shape. The destroyed microwave was relocated to the bushes at the end of the garden. A chest of drawers which had become somewhat charred suffered a similar fate after myself and SB had beaten it to pieces with hammers. We hoped to be long gone before autumn, when the leaves would fall and reveal the carnage.
After these exertions we decided the most appropriate course of action was to retire to some bars. Returning somewhat tipsy, SB decided to knock a 2" dent in the bathroom wall. I suspect the hammer games earlier had left a mark on his impresionable mind. I cunningly repaired the problem by covering the mark with badly matched paint. To dispose of the evidence we threw the open paint tin out of my bedroom window, inadvertantly covering the window below in white paint. Our leaving date of August was accelerated somewhat.
The next day we woke bright, early and excessively hungover. We started transporting our various items of rubbish to our new home. Around midday the poor unfortunates who were to replace us in the flat arrived. They appeared to want to move their things into the building. SB gently pointed out that they should return in five hours or so. They wisely removed themselves and the move continued.
Around five hours later all but 20 bin bags full of litter had been successfuly relocated. The new tenants returned and GB arrrived with a van - we decided to take the rubbish to the tip and escape. The new occupiers' first sight was SB ripping a bin bag as he carried it downstairs, spreading its contents down these stairs. He then giggled like an insane schoolgirl for around five minutes. If I had been in a position to take a photo of our replacements faces it would have been well worth the beating I would surely have received for such an action. We agreed that we would keep a key to the flat until the next day, so that we could return and pick up our washing machine, then retired to our new domicile and its nearest pub.
The next day we returned to our flat as promised. It was empty. SB was curious to see what had been done with his old room, prehaps fondly remembering his stay there only 24 hours earlier. It should be explained that two of the new tenants were female, so potentially his mind was swayed by this, I make no judgement. Myself, SB and GB entered the room with trepidation and a weak cover story in mind in case we were caught in somewhat unexplainable circumstances. After sniffing the bed for some time, SB decided to check the new arrangment of clothes in the drawers he never owned. Myself and GB were studying a sickeningly touching montage of photos stuck to the wall. Various people were looking happy in their happy funland lives.
GB reached the same conclusion at the same time as me.
We looked at each other. The one common face in the pictures was that of a young man. The young man whose underwear drawer SB was now rooting excitedly through, like a pig hunting for white truffles or indeed brown truffles. The merciless mocking of SB started and the excited rooting ended.
We picked up the washing machine, broke it when GB cornered somewhat overenthusiastically and called the whole episode to an end.
Peter O'Phile Note:
We later learnt that one of the female inmates was sick in the shower when she first used it and it filled with dirty water. SB's filthy girlfriend had blocked the plughole with her long black grimy hair, we never really cared but apparently her sensibilities were somewhat tamer.
Oh, and my goldfish died a few days after the move. I guess it didn't like moving house anymore than me.
This account includes the death of a goldfish.
It is recommended that those of a piscophilic nature step away now.
I have always hated moving house. The only redeeming feature of the stress and effort required is getting to cruise around in a Transit van. The worst of these times I have experienced involved myself and SB's move from our Clifton residence. A trial exacerbated by my being away in some foreign country the week before thus leaving the final arrangements with SB - a task I was uneasily aware of his ineptitude for.
Arriving back in the UK around 5pm the day before our move, I received a text from SB - "house fell through, I'm staying with X". Repeated attempts to get in touch with SB failed. Arriving in Nottingham around an hour later SB revealed that my period of intense stress had been a ruse on his part and the coast was clear for our relocation the next day. I could also see preparations for moving had not gone to plan. A couple of hours of intense tidying later we were in better shape. The destroyed microwave was relocated to the bushes at the end of the garden. A chest of drawers which had become somewhat charred suffered a similar fate after myself and SB had beaten it to pieces with hammers. We hoped to be long gone before autumn, when the leaves would fall and reveal the carnage.
After these exertions we decided the most appropriate course of action was to retire to some bars. Returning somewhat tipsy, SB decided to knock a 2" dent in the bathroom wall. I suspect the hammer games earlier had left a mark on his impresionable mind. I cunningly repaired the problem by covering the mark with badly matched paint. To dispose of the evidence we threw the open paint tin out of my bedroom window, inadvertantly covering the window below in white paint. Our leaving date of August was accelerated somewhat.
The next day we woke bright, early and excessively hungover. We started transporting our various items of rubbish to our new home. Around midday the poor unfortunates who were to replace us in the flat arrived. They appeared to want to move their things into the building. SB gently pointed out that they should return in five hours or so. They wisely removed themselves and the move continued.
Around five hours later all but 20 bin bags full of litter had been successfuly relocated. The new tenants returned and GB arrrived with a van - we decided to take the rubbish to the tip and escape. The new occupiers' first sight was SB ripping a bin bag as he carried it downstairs, spreading its contents down these stairs. He then giggled like an insane schoolgirl for around five minutes. If I had been in a position to take a photo of our replacements faces it would have been well worth the beating I would surely have received for such an action. We agreed that we would keep a key to the flat until the next day, so that we could return and pick up our washing machine, then retired to our new domicile and its nearest pub.
The next day we returned to our flat as promised. It was empty. SB was curious to see what had been done with his old room, prehaps fondly remembering his stay there only 24 hours earlier. It should be explained that two of the new tenants were female, so potentially his mind was swayed by this, I make no judgement. Myself, SB and GB entered the room with trepidation and a weak cover story in mind in case we were caught in somewhat unexplainable circumstances. After sniffing the bed for some time, SB decided to check the new arrangment of clothes in the drawers he never owned. Myself and GB were studying a sickeningly touching montage of photos stuck to the wall. Various people were looking happy in their happy funland lives.
GB reached the same conclusion at the same time as me.
We looked at each other. The one common face in the pictures was that of a young man. The young man whose underwear drawer SB was now rooting excitedly through, like a pig hunting for white truffles or indeed brown truffles. The merciless mocking of SB started and the excited rooting ended.
We picked up the washing machine, broke it when GB cornered somewhat overenthusiastically and called the whole episode to an end.
Peter O'Phile Note:
We later learnt that one of the female inmates was sick in the shower when she first used it and it filled with dirty water. SB's filthy girlfriend had blocked the plughole with her long black grimy hair, we never really cared but apparently her sensibilities were somewhat tamer.
Oh, and my goldfish died a few days after the move. I guess it didn't like moving house anymore than me.
posted by Peter O'Phile at
9:42 pm
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