"I've decided to fire my movers for tomorrow and I've rented a van," AlefAlef informed me at some ungodly hour this morning. "It'll be way less complicated this way. Can you be here this afternoon?"
"Uh . . . sure . . . ?" I was vulnerable and incredibly stupid; he'd caught me in a pre-caffeinated state.
"Great! Oh! And can you bring boxes?"
"Um . . . You haven't finished packing yet?"
If, when I arrive at to help at a move, the movee is still frantically thrusting things into boxes and rushing about looking for the packing tape, I turn around and go home. I've lived the hell of packing and moving enough times that I don't need to live anyone else's hell with them. Except maybe for AlefAlef. Not only is he the best cook I know (and his mother bakes the best cookies ever) and I would be cut off for an indeterminate length of time if I didn't help in the move, he is also the kind of close friend with whom you don't quibble over the small stuff (like a disorganised move – very minor in the grand scheme of friendship); you write blogs about the small stuff. Plus, he's helped on two of my moves so I owe him. But my moves are easy: they are spectacularly well-organised.
I start packing weeks beforehand and I'm finished and scrubbing the floors already the day before. I ask everyone I know to help – I'm not shy about favours! – knowing that maybe half will say yes and of those, approximately half will actually show up (although one time everyone who said they would show, showed, and the move was over in less than an hour). That is about all it takes for a smooth, successful move.
Not that there aren't still glitches, no matter how successful. One time a mover cancelled on me the day before my move and refused to relent. No amount of reasoning and pleading worked – and neither did yelling, swearing, and cursing his children, both unborn and born. Those kind souls who appeared for the move were very surprised to learn that they would be moving me in their cars. One of those helpers, who is himself most likely the most disorganised movee ever, has exacted his revenge on me a number of times over the years since.
But the very worst move was the one where my friend-with-a-van arrived at my apartment one hour late and on a bicycle. "This can't be a good sign," I though with great intelligence to myself as I spied him peddling towards me. He was there merely as a courtesy to let me know his van had caught fire and that there would be no moving me that day or any other day for all eternity. Panic! Chaos! Cacophony! Fire! I went mentally through all the Ten Plagues to determine which one(s) I'd most like to see visited upon his head.
I moved two days later - much to the consternation of the woman who was to move into the place that day - in a plagueless van; there wasn't too much she could do since I was doing her a favour by allowing her to move in a couple of days before the first of the month. The two days we lived together among the mountains of boxes were bliss.
So I suppose that AlefAlef's move will be easier than that. And I had better get an amazing meal out of it.
I found out where Mr V is (see previous entry). I wish him strength, health, and good spirits in his difficult time.