One is either moved, or not moved, right? One would think.

I am speaking of houses – moving from one of them to another. Just as you can’t be half-pregnant, you can’t be half-moved. Except that we are. Everything we could take to Hyde Park in the Landy, we have. Everything we couldn’t, remains here in Emmarentia.

A removals guy called Sean – if any of you want his number, let me know – had booked to move us at 8am. Rob, being Rob, called him at 8.15. He was on his way, he said – the traffic was bad. She called after nine: he would only be there by 12 noon. No, 11.30.  By 11.30 I had taken three loads across in the Landy. At noon I called him. He would be there in 10 – 15 minutes, he said. By one, both Rob and I were calling rapid-fire: his phone was off. His mail box was full. He was not responding to sms’s.

Rob and I had the same idea at the same time – call someone else. We did, and now I am waiting on the front porch of the Emmarentia house, waiting for Heinrich and his 3-ton truck with trailer. With any luck, we will get our stuff finally moved just after dark. Rob is back at the Hyde Park house meanwhile, putting up some curtains in the bedroom, so the people in the street up the hill behind us will not look straight in, when finally – if finally – we climb, exhausted, into our own bed tonight, in our new home. Moved, fully; moved, O Lord, at last!

Not a word meanwhile from that lying shit Sean. Perhaps he has suddenly gone bankrupt, his truck repossessed, and there is a god, after all.

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