As you may remember (see “The Boxer”) I had to move out of my old place before the new one was ready, and so it was that in mid September I was finally able to move in, in fact, I started the process the day after returning from Kauai (See “Une Ile”), so at least I was well rested. Rather than struggling alone, I bit the bullet and paid for professional movers to do the literal heavy lifting. There was no way I could play the beer and pizza card again with friends, and never even considered it, and in addition, I have one very special piece that I wouldn’t even dare move without professional help. It’s a fully restored Danish Mid-century Modern wall cabinet in Rosewood which I bought from a friend as a suitable home for my extensive and expensive booze collection, and it looks as good as it sounds.
As promised, two hefty lads turned up in a moving van and proceeded to load up while I filled the car with all the random crap that always takes an age to move. Yes, I know, but seeing as it was costing me $105 an hour, I felt it to be a worthwhile use of my time. After the main items were in the house, including the bedroom set which had to be carried up two flights of narrow stairs with tight turns, the fun began: unpacking.
I say “fun” in a sarcastic way because one of my new places’ failings is the lack of storage space. It has a number of others, but I won’t go into all that now, except to say that reality fell far short of promise. Apart from the kitchen cabinets and pantry the only storage in the whole house consists of a small closet in each bedroom. I’ve spent much of the intervening four weeks finding interesting and creative ways to put a quart into a pint pot. It feels like everything I own is inside something else, like some huge, bizarre Matryoshka doll. The spaces under both beds are packed with essentials, largely spare bedding still in the packaging and the closets are organised in a manner that would make a Tetris world champion proud. In fact, it is only recently that the spaces under the coffee tables have not been crammed with banker boxes, although the only way to store my brewing gear was to stuff it into the bottom of the pantry.
On the upside, though, the move gave me the opportunity to get rid of a lot of stuff. I’m not a pack rat, but I am a sentimentalist, although it was the pragmatist in me that walked two boxes of old soccer magazines down to the recycling bin. I’ve built up quite a stash since 1992, but even I have to agree that if you haven’t read something in 0ver 10 years, it’s time for it to go.
I also took the opportunity to donate a very large bag of clothes. I’ve lost quite a bit of weight over the years, and many of my clothes whilst in good condition are far, far too big for me (see “Dedicated Follower Of Fashion” and “Sharp Dressed Man”), so it was no great loss to bag up the 3XLT flannel shirts, 2XL polo and short sleeved shirts as well as all the old 38″ waist dockers that have been languishing in my closet for so long. I even got rid of some of the tee shirts I brought with me from England, including my Oscar Wilde and Sir Ian Hunt tee shirts, although even I have to admit that they were well past their best and not fit to be worn in public.
In the end, a certain level of harmony was achieved, and I can now move around the house without having to resort to the sort of gyrations that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame, or move every box just to find a single item. The only minor issue is what to do with my books. Having filled the only bookcase I have, and used both demising walls at the top of the staircases, I’m left with six large plastic storage bins crammed with books taking up a corner of the dining area that I can ill afford to lose to storage. Oh, and before you even think it, no, I’m not getting rid of them. Someone else can deal with that once they’ve nailed down the coffin lid and prised my last read out of my cold, dead hands