So there we were, a mismatched quintet, still clinging like ancient and frayed wallpaper to the now-redundant eleven rooms of a house all-but sold. Boxes narrowed every space, their destinations and contents emblazoned – in black or blue permanent marker – for all the world, or at least that part of it trained in the mystic art of removal, to see.
A week of intensive packing – hefting, dragging, ripping and sealing – had left me with painful swollen hands and an aching back. Looking at the sand sculpture of boxed possessions lying upon the low-tide beach as one village’s sea of time was sucked slowly out, I found it hard to imagine how my much smaller new house could possibly find room for it all – and that before you factored in the furniture!
The four removal men, and their two lorries, arrived, as they said they would, early…
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