Kev the Removalist rang me in a complete tizz yesterday.
“You didn’t make your bed this morning!” he admonished, before launching into a your-place-is-a-mess rant that would put my parents to shame.
He’d let himself in with the spare key to assess how many trucks were needed to transport my extensive belongings (verdict: 2, plus 4 boofy blokes for NINE hours).
Kev’s still recovering from my last harrowing move. He’s also a bit of an old woman – in addition to being a removal industry veteran – and was on the verge of hyperventilation about how little packing I’d done.
He reckons I still have about 90 hours of work to do.
I’m supposed to be moving house on Monday … I don’t quite have 90 spare hours between now and then.
I think he’s just trying to scare me … so I laughed reassuringly and told him to calm the fark down. I insisted I had lots of people lined up to help with the move … truth massage … but it didn’t seem to do the trick.
So I outright lied and said I planned on really getting stuck into it last night.
What I was actually doing last night was sitting in a bar with my dear friend Rebeccca, drinking vodka and munching on pulled pork tacos with jalapeno jam. It was lovely. Much more fun than packing.
My fib tripped me up when Kev said he’d touch base this morning to see how much I’d gotten done …
Kev’s relentless. He kept asking tricky questions like “Where are all your boxes?” “Where’s the paper?” “Where’s the tape?”
I couldn’t answer any of them, so I finally joined him in his panic and asked him to pleeeeeease organise an emergency packer for today.
Kev reckons this move will cost more than the last one because there’s so much stuff. How can that be? The only extra thing I’ve acquired is a weird, ugly table the kids and I found by the side of the road and dragged home with only minor bruising.
Oh, and enough kids’ Christmas presents for a family of 10. But I think that’s a pretty common first-separated festive thing, right?
And my new garage is stacked with heaps of boxes I’ve already transferred over. When I told Kev about the crowded garage (as he surveyed my rental abode) his tone verged on incredulous: “Really? Where did all those boxes come from? Cause I can’t see anywhere in this place they could possibly have fitted.”
Kev forgets the study was floor-to-ceiling with boxes.
He forgets saying: “Your stuff isn’t going to fit!”
He forgets me replying: “That’s. Not. Helping. Me. Kev … It HAS to fit, just keep cramming stuff in.”
Prior to viewing my bombsite rental property and facing my slovenly habits, I think Kev might have fancied me.
When I rang to book him for my latest move he said: “After I move you this time, I’m taking you out for a drink!”
I laughed nervously. Kev is a top bloke, but not really my type.
Do you think he was hitting on me? Maybe he was just being friendly. I hope he was just being friendly.
Do removalists usually offer to buy you a drink after moves? I thought I was the one who was supposed to hand him a case of beer on departure.
I’m a bit terrified now. On so many levels.
Song of the day: The Bangles “Manic Monday”