12th July: Dirty knickers on the dark side



            The calendar shows that I’m doing removals today.  Posh-Boy is moving house so I’ve offered to help.  Six of us, resembling rejects from a misplaced Sherpa clan, form a human conveyor belt as we traipse back and forth, in drizzle, over a grassy quad and up and down four flights of stairs.  Posh-Boy’s packing preparation is immaculate, everything in square boxes that fit like Jenga pieces into Lauren LaVan.  The last item is an unsealed box containing his folded shirts that I swear he’s ironed around a specially prepared piece of hardboard. There are even two dress shirts, their wing-collars sitting upright, neat and proud like meerkats about to embark on a tour to The Dark Side.  My cutlery draw contains dirty knickers and I’m struck by the contrast in our lives. 

            I’ve not seen Georgie for a few days so in the afternoon I drive over to see her at Bill’s, where I help myself to Stilton, coffee and biscuits.  I’ve been doing this every week for twelve years and he’s never complained.  I also stroke Dandelion, my beloved cat, who, after Georgie’s tears and fifty quid, Bill was persuaded to adopt when I sold my house.

            Georgie’s not keen on sleeping in the van tonight (or any night) so we drive over to Grantham and say at mum’s, again. Before we leave I make up the double bed as a permanent feature and cover it in Georgie’s childhood duvet featuring ballet dancers and unicorns.  This attempt at nest building works – my mum is reassured that I now live in comfort and safety.  In the process I somehow put the driver’s headrest back in the seat the wrong way around and I can’t get it out.  I’ve also still not used the gas, the electric sockets or even the water because I still haven’t sussed how to use them and don’t want to expose my idiocy by telling anyone.

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