Sunday, August 27, 2006

Sunday Night Blues

It’s my last Sunday before the grindstone begins to turn again. I’m feeling like I really shouldn’t complain. Estrella was telling me that she read an article that said it takes four days to wind down from the stress of work and that people in the States never take holidays so in effect they never wind down; whereas here I am having Sunday night blues four days early; more than enough time to wind down from the stresses of moving, trying to clean my computer up, unpacking, electrocution etc.

So moving... Well that was pretty straightforward. After I emerged from the study, which seemed to have swallowed me whole and submerged me in the bile of six years paperwork, the rest of the flat disappeared into boxes pretty quickly. The only evidence that I had been here were the dusty shadows around my picture frames and my brightly coloured walls.

Was I sad to leave the place? No. In retrospect I think I spent three of the unhappiest years of my life here. I thought I would find it harder to leave the place. I thought dredging through all that stuff would be harder, but it was funny, even the photos spoke volumes. They were all organised into albums and had funny little comments underneath them, and then nothing, photos shoved into packets covered in dust to be forgotten, a marker of what was soon to fall apart.

And then my welcome to the new place. Well... I threw the door open excitedly, I flung the windows open to welcome in fresh air and then I walked about from room to room (it’s only a deux piece so that didn’t take too long) and then I stared out the window and my phone began to ring. “What number do you live at? I’ve got a piece of paper here that says 100 and another that says 103?” It was the mover’s. They had my file which gave my address and then they had a scrap of paper where I had scribbled the digicode. How difficult could it be? I tapped my pocket and skipped out the door. I figured I would stand in the middle of the road and wave at them, that should save any confusion. But they weren’t there. They weren’t anywhere to be seen. So I turned around, reached into my pocket and drew out my keys with the magic pass key. Only the bit of plastic I had in my hand was brightly coloured depicting a San Francisco tram, not the magic key that would let me into my new building. I had the wrong set of keys!

The following events prove that I have made the right choice in choosing this apartment. Miraculously I remembered the digicode and got as far as the letter boxes, but then was lacking the key to get any further. BUT no fear, the guy from the architect’s office at the front of the building was there. As he let me in I gushed out in a babble how I had locked myself out and the mover’s were on there way, blahblehdiblehdiblehdibler, three light seconds later I had explained everything and he in a very concerned way explained that I was lucky that I had not locked the door. I didn’t like to point out to him that if I had locked the door I would have the keys. I also didn’t want to point out to him that there was an electrician standing on a ladder to my left and my first floor windows in front of me were wide open. After the architect had finished his commiserations and suggestions I pointed to the ladder and my windows, there may have also been some more light speed explanations, but in any case in the next second the mover arrived and he was up the ladder before he had a chance to protest. “And make sure you don’t fall off.” The architect called up to the mover as he with some lightning speed Spiderman movements was up and over the balcony. I wasn’t sure who to hug or kiss so I restrained myself and didn’t kiss or hug anybody.

Well cleaning the computer: ‘nuff said. It was depressing and sad and is still not completely better, but it’s limping on for the moment.

Unpacking - Well major thanks go to Claire there. She got me over the midway mark and held the ladder as I discovered my new passion in life: drilling holes in walls. I enjoyed it so much I even drilled some extra ones.

And lastly the electrocution. Well it wasn’t a major one. Mind you it wasn’t the gentle tingle up to my elbow that I experienced when I stuck two screws into the ac adapter when I was ten and my brother was farting around with his tape deck. “Here feel this bro.” I said handing him over the wire. That little trick earned me a wallop around the ear from my Dad which hurt a lot more. “You could have killed him.” My Dad railed at me. I pointed out that I had touched it myself and knew it wouldn’t kill my brother, but that was it I was banned from electricity for ever more.

Well obviously not because otherwise I wouldn’t have been standing on top of my wet metal sink attaching a light fitting the other day. Now I know I switched off the light switch when I removed the old fitting, but it was in removing the old fitting that I realised that I hadn’t pulled out the fuse for the light fitting. Somehow, as I disconnected the wire, the screwdriver made the connection and momentarily before the fuse flipped the light came on and a jolt went down my arm and thankfully out of my right shoulder. I screamed and the light fitting fell on to the sink. Of course my first recourse was to go and sit on the sofa and have a fag and thank my lucky stars that my electricity was still at 3 volts and not 6 and that the fuse had flipped when it did.

I assure you I’m not feeling immortal after that little debacle. No, I am feeling very cautious. That is why there is still no light in the hallway and I’m waiting for Jane to come round and ensure I don’t forget any really important things like turning off the electricity. So I better go she’s due any minute.

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