Wilson’s week

Press, 18 December 1989, Page 19

Wilson’s week

Removal confusion

The furniture removal men stood at our front door surveying a scene of utter confusion and chaos. “You the people moving?” one of them asked. “No,” I replied, “We always live out of cardboard boxes.” It was 8.15 in the morning and I had just woken after a sleepless night caused by (A) frantic lastminute packing and (B) the violent effects of a tummy bug that made me more familiar with the toilet than any other room in the house. Moving day. Nightmare in Redcliffs, part one and two: The children were packed off to school. “Did you pack away your things?” I called after them. A little voice made some sort of non-commit-tal reply. Then they scurried away. I went into their bedroom. Everything seemed under control, until I opened the wardrobe. They had packed things away, on top of each other, in the wardrobe. The fool who opened the door discovered this as it rained teddy bears, books, toys and clothes. “I’ll need more cardboard boxes,” I said from beneath a mound topped by Kermit the Frog and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It’s very difficult to sound dignified and in control of your life when you are beneath a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. My wife and I began an orderly shuttle system of fragile goods between our old home and our new house, a few blocks away. The orderly packing of items into the back of the station waggon went well, until we realised we were running out of time — the new owners would be here soon and we wanted the old place emptied first. So we began just pushing anything and everything into the car, until at last we resembled a family fleeing from East Berlin. Not for the first time this day I felt sympathetic toward refugees of all nations. The TV aerial man was waiting at the new house. “I’ll need you to stay here,” he said. “Why?” “To make decisions,” he replied. Fair enough. I can make decisions. The tummy bug reminded me it had not run its course. Not a problem, decisions can also be made in the toilet. The TV aerial man’s task was perhaps the most important of the entire move. Anybody could shift furniture but in the eyes of the children only a magician could tune our TV set to TV3. We could not receive TV3 at our former house and the entire success of the move, in the boys’ eyes, would be measured by whether they could watch “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” in colour at our new home. So I had to make decisions, such as whether the picture on the TV set was acceptable ... and whether the new dooferdacky attachment on the aerial was better and if it was, which it was, was I prepared to buy it for $75? Those kinds of decisions. Our old house gradually emptied of goods, which was a satisfying sign. However our hew house gradually filled with goods, and boxes, and cartons, and more things and what was particularly embarrassing was that when my wife inspected the boxes she noticed how many of them — most of them — were part of my hobby room. “How many model aeroplanes have you got?" she asked.

Gulp. Until now a bland wardrobe door had concealed that fact. Now, stacked in numbered boxes, the truth, was in danger of being found out. “There’s a lot of packing in there,” I insisted. “To protect the one or two models per box,” I added. “Packing,” she nodded to herself and wandered off. Carefully I opened the boxes and removed the models I was using as packing around the other models. Then I hid the lot in a new nondescript wardrobe. I love nondescript wardrobes. A friend called in to see how we were going. “How are your new neighbours?” she asked. At that point we had not met the neighbours, but we’ve always taken a very relaxed position about neighbours. They could practise witchcraft for all I mind, provided they’re quiet about it and keep the chickens on their side of the fence. Anyway we were too busy trying to determine which box had what packed in it. Over the years I have prided myself on the impeccable box identification system used for each move. Each container is labelled in order that we know which room it is intended for, and what exactly are the contents of this box. For example you could look at a cardboard box and know it contained science fiction books, which belong with the bookcase in the lounge. A box labelled “kitchen glassware” obviously goes to the kitchen. However such was the haste of certain last-min-ute packing, I found myself later that night regarding a box with “stuff” written on it. There were many boxes with “stuff” written on them. The carriers, unable to break the code, drumped everything on the front door step, so it fell to Muggins to shift the tentonne weights to their allotted rooms. This he did, each time expanding his repertoire of obscene language, muttering under his breath as he staggered into the bedroom with a box that belong at the other end of the house. And, by one of those cute laws of Nature, the box containing items you absolutely need right now is the one on the bottom of the stack of boxes in the hallway. As for the rest of the stack, well seeing as you have picked them up, you might as well just keep staggering until you find their correct repository too. Eventually all of the boxes found their way to where they were supposed to be, were duly unpacked and the new house began to resemble a family home with books in the bookcase, pots in the pot cupboard and children with their heads in the biscuit jar. Friends congratulated us on the speed with which we settled into the house. “Well,” I said, “it was hectic for a time, but it’s all over now. No more stress and rushing about. Just sit back and do nothing.” Except send out a whole printing press load of change-of-address cards. “Don’t forget to send one to Santa,” said the boys, reminding us they wanted more than a house for Christmas. “What’s Santa going to give you for Christmas Daddy?” asked our youngest lad. "I already have it. A mortgage statement and a lifetime’s supply of cardboard boxes.” —DAVE WILSON