This is a picture of eight of the boxes of my books we moved to the flat last night. (Um no, that isn’t all the books. It’s probably about half the ones I own. In this country.) (See, eight boxes doesn’t sound very much to me, but I’ve been given a maximum of one month (by my flatmate) to sort them out, take several to the charity shop, and get shelves for the rest. And then get those shelves into my room, which isn’t big.)
We didn’t just move the books, and bookcases, however. We also brought up a massive (and I mean massively heavy – it has a solid metal mechanism) sofa bed. Or rather, we (my flatmate and I) helped the delivery guy get it half way up the stairs, and then we all got stuck, with us above the sofa, it completely blocking the stairs, and the delivery guy at the bottom.
Panic struck, while we tried to think of local, strong, healthy males we could call upon. (This needed people bigger, heavier and stronger than us or any of our female friends, much as any underlying feminist principles might object. There are plenty of women who could have done this – we just don’t know any of them. We tried ourselves, and physically just couldn’t.)
So I wouldn’t blame the people we phoned (or their spouses) for not answering our calls for awhile (although we have no intention of requesting anything in the foreseeable future) but they were wonderful, dropped everything and really came to the rescue. (And were lovely about it in every way.)
The lessons learned:
- We have wonderful friends and relations.
- Always always always check on the size and weight of something that needs to go upstairs, even if it’s free!