LOOK at it this way: I don't ask any old Tom, Dick or hairy removal
man to finish off the next sentence for me. Horses for courses and all
that. So why should they be looking at me like this? Why am I feeling so
guilty? Packing was part of the deal and we agreed to pay for it.
''Did you no' manage to box up the china then?'' they're saying, all
hurt and vulnerable. All I can do is offer them a delicate little
(unpacked) cuppa each, into which their tears can plop.
Okay, when you watch them doing what they do, it's not exactly a job
to kill for, though it wouldn't surprise me if a few have died for it.
For you, the trauma might happen a handful of occasions in a lifetime;
for them it's a true daily grind, manhandling massive pieces of
furniture down narrow stairs lined with expensive wallpaper that can be
touched only on pain of death.
It's not hard to imagine being a removal man on the morning after,
with aching post-work arms and jingling post-pub head, thinking: can I
go through with it all again today? It's an honest living and a test of
character. He has my sympathy. But that doesn't mean I want to do it for
him.
Nor, however, can I just sit here watching and smoking, like some idle
country gentleman supervising the servant-folk while they empty my house
of millions more belongings than I knew I had. Like a procession of
leaf-carrying ants, their long, repetitive circular tour goes on and on,
and my guilt grows with every huff and puff.
Soon, yet another round of tea is not enough to assuage it. Especially
after the fish supper story. I'm told how, when battling away at a large
house in the country, a young removal man was sent to the nearest
village for four fish suppers. Turbo-powered by multiple hunger pangs
(his own and those of three mates) he ran three miles there and back, to
collapse in a vinegar-reeking heap at the door.
''Well done, lad,'' says the owner, picking up all four meals and
setting out two each for himself and his wife. ''What are you chaps
having?''
The message is not missed. Okay, chaps, it's fish suppers all round.
And, yes, all right, you must be tired, so I'll fetch them myself.
It might be heavy on the wallet but the carrying of one big, warm and
nice-smelling bag is not exactly onerous; certainly not enough, I
discover, to make me feel better. Must hang on, must busy myself with
little things: re-roll the toilet paper again; hold down the carpet
curl; trim the plastic plant; hold on as long as possible. But I'm going
to crack, I know it.
Finally, the big chief says the magic words: ''I think that's us then,
sir. Could you just check that we've taken everything?''
Quick check reveals one or two little things still hanging around,
like a piano and a wardrobe. No, I'm joking. They really are little
things, like rusty tin openers. ''It's okay,'' I call out foolishly,
''off you go. I'll see to the wee loose ends.''
The Fatal Error.
There followed a scene that could have come straight from a Laurel and
Hardy film. You'll think I'm making it up, but not so. No doubt there
were witnesses behind twitching curtains but I'd rather not know . . .
Three of the items left behind were two children and a cat. Packing up
the kids was tricky enough, but suddenly Sammy was a fighting, spitting,
sabre-toothed tiger. Like an ancient Gladiator, I did combat with him
until the car door could be rapidly slammed on him.
Then there was the other stuff. Much, much more than I'd imagined --
pots, irons, toasters, jam jars -- and all really too heavy for the one
remaining cardboard box. Melting under my perspiration, it -- and my
knees -- finally gave way halfway to the car, smashing a selection of
jams, jellies and tomato ketchup all over the path. It looked like the
bloody aftermath of a Khmer Rouge attack.
''Help!'' I screamed, locking the remains of the box against the wall
with my exhausted body. At which point an alarmed child opened the car
door to run to my rescue. At which point the cat escaped. At which point
the other child went racing after it and disappeared. At which point the
telephone back in the house started ringing.
At which point I did the only thing I could.
I dropped the rest of my box on my toes and screamed blue murder.
Apart from the fact that the nice, quiet residential neighbourhood was
thus very glad to see the back of me, there was one consolation in all
of this. I learned not to feel guilty about not doing what I can't do,
and don't want to do. Horses for courses indeed. And cats for some
far-off cattery.
Why are you making commenting on The Herald only available to subscribers?
It should have been a safe space for informed debate, somewhere for readers to discuss issues around the biggest stories of the day, but all too often the below the line comments on most websites have become bogged down by off-topic discussions and abuse.
heraldscotland.com is tackling this problem by allowing only subscribers to comment.
We are doing this to improve the experience for our loyal readers and we believe it will reduce the ability of trolls and troublemakers, who occasionally find their way onto our site, to abuse our journalists and readers. We also hope it will help the comments section fulfil its promise as a part of Scotland's conversation with itself.
We are lucky at The Herald. We are read by an informed, educated readership who can add their knowledge and insights to our stories.
That is invaluable.
We are making the subscriber-only change to support our valued readers, who tell us they don't want the site cluttered up with irrelevant comments, untruths and abuse.
In the past, the journalist’s job was to collect and distribute information to the audience. Technology means that readers can shape a discussion. We look forward to hearing from you on heraldscotland.com
Comments & Moderation
Readers’ comments: You are personally liable for the content of any comments you upload to this website, so please act responsibly. We do not pre-moderate or monitor readers’ comments appearing on our websites, but we do post-moderate in response to complaints we receive or otherwise when a potential problem comes to our attention. You can make a complaint by using the ‘report this post’ link . We may then apply our discretion under the user terms to amend or delete comments.
Post moderation is undertaken full-time 9am-6pm on weekdays, and on a part-time basis outwith those hours.
Read the rules hereComments are closed on this article