If my new neighbours didn’t know I was moving in on Friday morning, they certainly do by now. The stairs up to my flat have seen more action this weekend than they might have done in their history before now. Like, I know there was someone living here before me, but when we did our viewing they barely had any possessions. Also, what they did have was all antique-y, and spindly, and artfully vintage, which is in sharp contrast to the half ton of budget IKEA stuff I ordered among other things.
Anyway, one terrifyingly adult thing I had to buy to move into this flat was a freezer and washing machine. These are grown up things to own, in my opinion. They’re balanced out by the fact that I also own an already-half-empty box of Coco Pops and a Mickey Mouse cushion, but still.
My appliances arrived on Friday afternoon and were carried up the narrow, hairpin stairs by a man who looked like my stereotypical idea of a delivery man and one of the skinniest teenage boys I’ve ever seen. I will proudly call myself a feminist at every opportunity, but when Delivery Man The Elder called me ‘love’ I immediately warmed to him, because sometimes it’s your first day in your brand new, empty flat, and you feel a little bit vulnerable, and it’s nice to be able to give up all of your principles as soon as somebody’s nice to you.
When I mentioned to Delivery Boy The Younger that I wasn’t sure where the freezer was supposed to be plugged in, he was only too pleased to crawl around under the kitchen counters until he found it and plugged it in for me. I couldn’t switch it one straight away because apparently that’s a thing with freezers, so I had to stick my arm under there later to flick the switch, and quickly discovered exactly how gross that must have been for him. I also quickly realised that I could only just get the top of my arm into a space that his entire torso had fit. That says something about one of us, and I fear it might be me.
While signing things to confirm that I was now a card-carrying, washing-machine-owning grown-up, Delivery Man The Elder bemoaned the fact that he had to drive all the way back to Plymouth. I made sympathetic noises for a few seconds before admitting that I was new to the area and didn’t know how far that was.
Today, I took delivery of my epic IKEA order. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that a person gets a teardrop tattoo under their eye when they’ve murdered someone. Which is super-interesting, because one of the delivery guys had two.
It was fine, though, because I’m not a snob, and I’m definitely a brave, badass, independent woman. Of course, to avoid intimidating the possible ex-con, I spent the majority of the delivery slot hiding behind the door under the pretence of being helpful and holding it open. For their good, you understand. I’m still currently alive to tell the tale, so I’m hoping my tactic of staying quiet and out of the way worked. Here’s hoping. If I suddenly disappear, please find a grizzly man with facial tattoos and a bright pink polo shirt. It’ll be him. I guarantee it.