Monday, 4 May 2015

This Boy Can

Yesterday morning, my mother went out for a walk and noticed, on her way back, a large desk/drawer combination with a handwritten sign on it saying "please take me!". On the assumption that we could fit this thing into our room (a task further complicated by virtue of her having put a piano in it, thus using up a large amount of space), thus providing us with adequate drawer space for all the shit we appear to have (and there's a lot of it!), she bounded into my path and presented this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack.

And so, because we do absolutely everything my mother tells us lest she should have at me with a steak knife or somesuch, we trolled around to the road where she'd seen it and asked if we could take it. We could. And we tried.


After taking all the drawers out on the assumption that this would make the thing lighter, we tried again.

10 metres down the road and I was resting on it for support, with a cramp in my left leg and incredible pain in my wrists and a girlfriend calling me a pussy for not dealing well with weight, pain, or (more realistically) a combination of the two. Self-victimisation aside, this was practically impossible for anyone with strength not matching that of Heracles, or possibly Captain Marvel on a good day. Two slightly crippled sex bloggers who had just spent a couple of hours walking around bits of London for a completely different purpose was probably not the best of ideas.

Still, we'd started so we needed to finish. It was only about half a kilometre, if that, and once we'd gotten the hang of moving this thing, it really wouldn't take that long.

40 minutes later and we were at the front door. I was sweating so profusely that my jumper was beginning to fuse to my skin, with red welts on my palms and fingers from the weight pressing down on them, feet that were practically worn to the bone and the rest of me in a state of nervous collapse. My 65-year-old dad, thoroughly amused by the whole thing, basically carried it on his own through to our room and put it at the end of our bed.

So now we have a random bit of furniture blocking the main walkway in our room and lots of empty drawers which are, in all probability, going to end up with smut in them à la the bottom drawer of my desk at university, reserved purely for poor-quality VHSs gleaned from eBay and a well-worn copy of Emmanuelle: Queen of the Galaxy (the top drawer was for sherbet lemons). And all it cost me was the expenditure of three times the usual daily energy from my body and a large amount of pleading, swearing and crying under the judging eyes of a suburban public enjoying their Sunday afternoon.

Hooray, free stuff.

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