Moving to The Grannary

A retro-blog by Pat the Chooks
Monday, 29th May 2006
Her Maj was off to work, this being a holiday for my workplace but not for hers, and I was left to deal with the removers. This is a remarkably trusting thing for a wife to do, but I was resigned to getting something wrong in the move and being found out. Such is the lot of the husband. I realise that I probably make the good lady sound like a right old harridan, and I must hasten to assure my reader that she definitely isn’t. She is a trusting, kind and generous woman who just likes her husband to understand his duties and responsibilities clearly and likes to see her wishes fulfilled. Nothing wrong with any of that of course, but having the attention span of a butterfly and being entrusted with packing the contents of a house and moving it 200m along the road and getting it unpacked before she got back from school, it would be inevitable that my old enemy, initiative, would rear its ugly head and upset her carefully-laid plan.
We were expecting, for this very short flit, a grand total of two vans and four removers. They duly arrived, together with one of the partners of the firm, and got to work emptying the office so that it could be used as a route into the rest of the house. And thus began the sequence of events for the day: room by room they moved in crates and boxes and the brightest lad would carefully wrap the delicate stuff and pack it into boxes, the others, including a large lad whose claim to fame was swallowing a medal, would pick up things and cram them into crates while my back was turned. At the first drop at The Grannary, they decided to carry a loaded, open-backed bookcase up the stairs. Inevitably, the files all fell out and there was a cascade of paper to the floor of the hall. I decided to save my sense-of-humour failure until later, but, on reflection, that could have been the perfect moment.
It wasn’t too bad an evolution, in the end. Nothing broken, but several very close shaves, and it was a good job Her Maj wasn’t there because there wasn’t the degree of care and attention we’d have liked. We used these removers before when we came up from Somerset and could not speak more highly of them. This time, because we’d only confirmed the date of the move a week before, I suspect that all the good teams were committed and we were left with who would otherwise be hanging around the yard.
Still, it was done, and the game of Hunt the Kettle went on long into the night. We eventually won, but only after losing several rounds to the ingenuity of the removers’ packing skills.


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