The dramas at the school finally behind me, I moved into
Tavistock Square yesterday. I had somehow managed to pack all my belongings and then some into Chris’ old suitcase. Talk about a science lesson in the difference between volume and density. I spent over four hours packing and repacking everything until I eventually squeezed as much as is physically possible into the case. And had four shopping bags and a tea-box of stuff left over. Thank goodness I had Thad there to help me lug the case while I carried the shopping bags. Which were in themselves pretty darn heavy. When we got into town I ran into Woolies and bought another little trolley case and squeezed all the other stuff in there. I didn’t realise how heavy the big case was until Thad left me at the station. And I couldn’t roll it – at all – let alone try to carry it over the gap between the train and the platform. A nice conductor came along quite quickly to be a hero, until he tried lifting the damned thing, which had an amazing capacity to induce the calmest and sweetest looking of people to blurt out strings of expletives. Poor Thad.
To think he had dragged it from the house to the bus stop, onto the bus, off the bus, and over brick paving that spanned over half a kilometer to the train station. When I got into London, a quick study of the
tube map indicated that I had to pull my two cases of what must be equivalent to one of the stone blocks of the pyramids not only around the tube stations, but on and off four different lines before I get anywhere close to where I should be. With a deep breath and the help of my mate Will Power I got off the train and made for the first change of train. And got to stairs. And had to ask for help. And got down the three steps. And got to escalators. And the bags started to topple over me. And I had to try to prevent it from pushing me over, which would have caused a domino effect down the entire escalator, and some random stranger had to come to my rescue again.
And got to the bottom. And there were more stairs. And I had to ask for a lift. Take the right. Go right again. Straight down the road. And there’s a lift. Use that. Oh-kaaay. So there I am, trying to weave my way around the crowd – and it’s a big crowd – I could swear my humerus was somehow no longer connected to my
glenoid cavity – trying to find this lift that supposedly exists somewhere down the hall to the right and to the right again and down the road… and ended up in suburbia. Let’s face it. I’ve been called many things, but I’m no ant. I’m not designed to lug around 10 times my own body weight let alone what I must have been lugging – I swear it was 20 times my body weight. I was hot. I was frustrated. I was tired. I was sore. I was calling a cab. Which I did. And he came out of the car to carry my bags into his car. And he swore under his breath. And he took me very promptly to my accommodation. And I unpacked. And I saw everything that I had done and, lo, it was very good. And I was pleased.
And on that sixth day I rested by taking a slow walk around my area of town to relax. Nothing particularly exciting to report, except for a very amusing plumber who called himself ‘The Singing Plumber’, who drove up Oxford Street in the very, very slow traffic singing songs out of a very, very loud speaker in his work van while bubbles were blown out of his car by a machine. Great singing, and brilliant advertising strategy. It was rainy, but nice.
The dramas at the school finally behind me, I moved into Tavistock Square yesterday. I had somehow managed to pack all my belongings and then some into Chris’ old suitcase. Talk about a science lesson in the difference between volume and density. I spent over four hours packing and repacking everything until I eventually squeezed as much as is physically possible into the case. And had four shopping bags and a tea-box of stuff left over. Thank goodness I had Thad there to help me lug the case while I carried the shopping bags. Which were in themselves pretty darn heavy. When we got into town I ran into Woolies and bought another little trolley case and squeezed all the other stuff in there. I didn’t realise how heavy the big case was until Thad left me at the station. And I couldn’t roll it – at all – let alone try to carry it over the gap between the train and the platform. A nice conductor came along quite quickly to be a hero, until he tried lifting the damned thing, which had an amazing capacity to induce the calmest and sweetest looking of people to blurt out strings of expletives. Poor Thad. 
To think he had dragged it from the house to the bus stop, onto the bus, off the bus, and over brick paving that spanned over half a kilometer to the train station. When I got into London, a quick study of the tube map indicated that I had to pull my two cases of what must be equivalent to one of the stone blocks of the pyramids not only around the tube stations, but on and off four different lines before I get anywhere close to where I should be. With a deep breath and the help of my mate Will Power I got off the train and made for the first change of train. And got to stairs. And had to ask for help. And got down the three steps. And got to escalators. And the bags started to topple over me. And I had to try to prevent it from pushing me over, which would have caused a domino effect down the entire escalator, and some random stranger had to come to my rescue again. 
And got to the bottom. And there were more stairs. And I had to ask for a lift. Take the right. Go right again. Straight down the road. And there’s a lift. Use that. Oh-kaaay. So there I am, trying to weave my way around the crowd – and it’s a big crowd – I could swear my humerus was somehow no longer connected to my glenoid cavity – trying to find this lift that supposedly exists somewhere down the hall to the right and to the right again and down the road… and ended up in suburbia. Let’s face it. I’ve been called many things, but I’m no ant. I’m not designed to lug around 10 times my own body weight let alone what I must have been lugging – I swear it was 20 times my body weight. I was hot. I was frustrated. I was tired. I was sore. I was calling a cab. Which I did. And he came out of the car to carry my bags into his car. And he swore under his breath. And he took me very promptly to my accommodation. And I unpacked. And I saw everything that I had done and, lo, it was very good. And I was pleased. 
And on that sixth day I rested by taking a slow walk around my area of town to relax. Nothing particularly exciting to report, except for a very amusing plumber who called himself ‘The Singing Plumber’, who drove up Oxford Street in the very, very slow traffic singing songs out of a very, very loud speaker in his work van while bubbles were blown out of his car by a machine. Great singing, and brilliant advertising strategy. It was rainy, but nice.
1 comment:
I have the most amusing images in my head of that series of events, Tan.
I wanted to let you know that I had to put Tully down yesterday.
Yeah, I am pretty torn up about it.
Yeah, I cried alot.
Yeah, I miss him.
But Kerry was there for me, and went to the vet with me. And then she drove us down to her place in Mandurah and now Tully is resting in the Kelly-Moroney backyard.
I'm so glad I have your drawing.
HUgs
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