It’s a lovely Friday—the sun is shining, the birds are singing—at least I think they are; I can’t quite hear them over the sound of the dogs barking. But best of all—it’s my day off! Yeah!
I have a hair appointment and then will attempt to run the gauntlet of the Mall—dodging pensioners with walkers and yummy-mummies with amazingly designed futuristic push-chairs. Should I survive this task I will return home to Pack Up The Kitchen in readiness for the workmen.
Packing up the kitchen is daunting. I haven’t seen the back of the shelves of my pantry for quite some time and dog only knows what’s under the kitchen sink. Well I work, and I write, and I do … other stuff, and housework is not my forte. If it were I’d be called Martha Stewart.
I’m organised. I have numerous boxes, duct tape, old tea-towels, newspaper, butchers paper, bubble-wrap for the glassware, and a large black felt-tip pen—told you I was organised. Martha, eat your heart out.
I’m so organised I’ve got rid of the OH so I can toss stuff out without being subject to the Spanish Inquisition as to why I’m tossing it when it’s perfectly good and serviceable (never mind it’s chipped and hasn’t been used in 20 years) and why don’t we store (hoard) it in the garage. For what? Armageddon?
I pick up a box. It’s flat. OK—I can do this. Twenty minutes, half a roll of duct tape, and one broken nail (dammit) later, I have a box. Obviously I should have studied engineering instead of business.
But now I’m on a roll. Wrapping the plates in butchers paper is a cinch and I lower them carefully into the box which has been lined with an old tea-towel (Martha, I’m channeling you). I even manage to close the box properly; seal it nicely with the duct tape, and write ‘good plates’ with the black pen. I smile to myself and lift the box. Jeez! OK—lift slowly. Lord it’s heavy. I stagger to the spare room and place it gingerly on the floor—wow—broke out in a sweat there. Shut up Martha!
The rest of the boxes go much the same way only this time half the heavy stuff and half plastic. I’m a quick learner.
Next is the pantry. I’m not quite sure why I have four unopened and out-of-date bottles of soy sauce. And when did I buy two packets of ginger shortbread and more importantly, why? Oh and look, there’s that Christmas pudding from last year—no wait, from 2010—oops. At least I have enough plastic wrap to last until Armageddon.
Under the sink is not as bad as I expected. I have found an unopened box of dishwasher tablets (cross them off the shopping list); three new scrubbing sponges, and five rubber gloves—left hand only. Now if I really were Martha I could do something with those.
Four hours; all the boxes (I now have a Masters in box folding); three bags of rubbish and another broken nail (dammit), and I am done.
The exciting thing is that when the workmen are done, I will have to put it all back.
Has anyone seen that bottle of red I left on the dresser?