George is opening a Deli on Tuesday. He used to run a venue in Dulwich and the basement is full of appliances. They went in haphazardly. Often bagged atrociously. He’s got an eye on what he wants back out but it is all buried in everything else.
“I want this, this, this…” He takes me through it all on video in the morning. He keeps adding things. “Maybe if you take these things first then you’ll get to those,’ he begins and “Just tell me what you need moving and leave the load to me.”
I’m fresh and awake having just driven back from Brighton to get the van at 8:30. I really wish I had my own van. My plus one slept through his alarm, so … we start the day with videos and a moment of planning.
Mark arrives reasonably quickly. He’s fit and strong and he doesn’t drink so the late arrival is not paired with a crap worker. I had one of my lads hanging on the job in the warehouse last week and I almost sent him home on the spot. Fucking useless.
It’s so piecemeal, this job, but we handball most of this stuff up the stairs. There’s a shit cargo lift for the heaviest stuff but it’s largely just easier to hoik it up by hand. The van gets totally overloaded and tightly packed. We have both been running the tail lift hard. Inevitably now it is fully loaded the van won’t start. We’ve run the battery out on lifting.
Pace aren’t with the RAC or the AA. It’s the budget breakdown boys for them, based in Essex. They eventually show up and get the engine running. I’m late now though. Getting a bit tired of Pace Vans dying on me. “Careful mate, that vans overloaded.”
I drive across town at ten miles an hour with the hazards on. Some cunt on a cycle with a GoPro pulls up alongside me at lights and tells me he can’t tell which way I’m going. I have been going straight, and have been cancelling the hazards whenever I had signal that needed to be seen. I don’t bother fully explaining myself to the guy, he’s making content so he’s hoping for reactions. “I’m driving exceptionally slowly which could be hazardous so I’m warning traffic,” I inform him and hopefully not his subscribers.
I get unloaded into the deli, and immediately off again to get a fridge from Abbey Road. Fucking huge great thing. About half a Boris, according to the hiding twat scale. “We’ll have to cut the wire,” she says. “Surely we can just take the plug off?” Many heads make light work.
That works. John and I somehow get it into the Luton together by lying it flat. Loads of water comes out when we do that. Perhaps that’s why she sold it. Probably good to drain it.
We get it out the other end and into the deli with four people. No damage. Another thing ticked off. I’m home again.
My bruises have bruises. I’ve done something odd to one of my fingers.
Sleep.
AlBarclay 