I was up at 6 packing and taping and packing and taping and sobbing and packing.
But I was ready with 20 minutes to spare.
The storage men were late.
As I looked out of the window I suddenly noticed two old lads waving up at me. I thought they must be lost. They were easily in their sixties so obviously couldn't be the professional moving and storage firm I'd booked at great expense. Right?
Yeah. You've seen where this is going haven't you? Yet another craptastic episode in the cut price ITV sit com of my life.
They were wheezing and coughing and breathing hard just walking up the first of my three flights of stairs.
I was agahst. I had at least a thousand books in boxes. That they would have to move. I don't know CPR.
Even more so when they coughed and spluttered their way up to the attic and said:
"Your stairs shouldn't be used."
Well, they're not. I use them loads. I go up them and down them frequently. I just do.
They seemed to get over that but then said that there is "too much stuff".
Well, there isn't. There is the stuff that I was quoted on. By your boss. When he came here and looked at it with his expert eye.
"Well, you shouldn't listen to him. He just says anything. He does it all the time."
Three tortuous hours later they're gone. Luckily no heart attacks were had. There was the time one of them went outside and had a screaming row with his wife on the phone, loud enough for everyone on Fishergate to hear. That was fun.
Then they charged me double because that crazy boss of theirs apparently just makes shit up as he goes along.
And these are the people I'm leaving all my lovely stuff with for the next year or so.
So that's a thing.
Only the whole house to clean now. Which is why I'm writing this while crouched on my makeshift bed (two cushions and a duvet) because I would rather walk through broken glass and then systematically jump up and down on the shards than clean one more fucking thing or pack one more cunting box.