The backlist came home today
All 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 boxes of it. I should know, I shifted all of them. I am a HEROINE. Peter says so. I am a heroine having a nice little quarter bottle of champagne.* I’m kind of assuming I won’t get out of bed at all tomorrow** because all my muscles will have gone paralytic*** as well as the ME saying, you did WHAT? Lie down,† but tonight I am aglow with virtue and a certain amount of astonishment. I’m still half spazzing with adrenaline so I thought I could tell you about how amazing I am.
Everything went wrong really early when I had a tech disaster over breakfast†† so I got up to Third House, to meet Atlas and his trailer, a good half hour later than scheduled. Fortunately Atlas is used to me.
It took two trips to haul all those boxes home††† and Atlas got all lugubrious the first time and said it might take three‡ whereupon I went into Frantic Action Mode and shoved a dozen boxes into Wolfgang, who is a bit tardis-like that way. We weren’t going to get our somewhat bedraggled loot‡‡ into the attic today so Atlas unloaded it onto a pallet of black plastic garbage bags on the paving in front of the summerhouse‡‡‡ and then we rushed back for the second load . . . well, ‘rush’ does not pertain to Atlas’ trailer, but he set out while I went back to the cottage for Pav and (a) got embroiled with a neighbour having a flap (b) WOLFGANG WAS MAKING A STRANGE NEW NOISE§ (c) got stuck behind a bicycle for about three miles.§§ By the time I finally arrived Atlas had nearly finished his plan for world peace and was just drawing up his list of world leaders to send it to.
When Atlas got the last of the second load into the back garden it was past his time to leave. So I was left looking at an Alp of book boxes. Peter told me helpfully that it might very well rain tonight. Not enough to do the garden(s) any good. Just enough to wet down boxes of backlist.
Tarpaulin, said Peter. Um, I said. And started carrying boxes upstairs. I meant to keep count, but I kept forgetting. Nearly a hundred. No, I’m serious. Over ninety but not quite a hundred. I think. Some of them were small. Not very many.
It took me quite a while. Atlas had sensibly put most of the biggest boxes in the bottom layer and by the time I reached it I had blisters on the middle joints of my little fingers and the insides of my arms just below the elbows. I was also cranky. I shifted about twenty of these last leviathans under the porch roof by the garden/sitting room door in the niches created by the bay windows. Everything else is in the attic. Oh, and yes, it is all going to fit. . . .
I think I’ll take another arnica.§§§
* * *
* It’s going to be a drunken, revelrous week: we’re taking Nina and Ignatius out to dinner on Friday as an INADEQUATE THANK YOU for everything they’ve done around the house move. Ignatius installed the much delayed splashback just this weekend. I hadn’t had a car^ all week so I finally rang the Hardened Glass People on Friday and my impression is that they went around looking under everybody’s desks till they found it. However, they did find it.^^ And Ignatius installed it. Hurrah hurrah hurrah. Tick one more thing off the House Move list. Only nearly as many things left on said list as there are boxes of backlist.
^ And they mended the thing they found+ but everything I took him in for is still there going zap whine roar moan.
+ Note to self: next time Wolfgang starts rattling like a nearly twenty-year-old car, ask them to check that there are no shock absorbers ready to fall off and go whirling down the road independently while Wolfgang and I blast away in a sudden, unplanned different direction.
^^ I should not have been driving on Friday—I told you it was a bad ME day—but God was looking out for me. He/she/it/they could have just not given me an ME day in the first place but I suppose that would be too easy.
** YAAAAAAY says the hellmob. MOVE OVER.
*** See, the champagne is therapeutic. Really. Absolutely.
† Yes, all right, don’t be so pushy, I need a pee first. I’ll lie down again in a minute, supposing the hellmob has left me any space. Bed sharing presently is a bit problematic because HALF the bed is still taken up with all the sheets and towels out of my airing cupboard. And have I mentioned that Atlas, my shelf builder, is GOING ON A FORTNIGHT’S HOLIDAY?
†† Most of my frelling kit at this point is ancient as tech goes, and while I hope the desktop—which is in fact the oldest of all—will soldier on for a while and possibly Pooka also, both the iPad and the laptop are frelling racing down that last long slope. Poor Raphael would already have the new stuff at least ordered and probably installed by now if I didn’t KEEP CHANGING MY MIND. There’s this vast horrible continuum of specs and . . . and . . . but the bottom line is that the Apple experiment has been kind of a bust. Pooka—who is an iPhone, for anyone who has forgotten (!)—is okay and I’ll worry about what to upgrade her to when she starts failing, but I have had it with the iPad refusing to play nicely with all the Microsoft stuff I’ve been living by for the last fifteen or so years. Fifteen or so years ago you could not get Apple over here, or at least no one would support it, so when I bought my first real computer it just was not an issue that all my American friends said Apple is better. And I loathe Microsoft but it’s what I’m used to and I can’t be bothered trying to learn a whole new ratbagging system which, from my experience with the iPad is not so blindingly marvellous thank you very much. My next tablet will run Windows. Sue me.
††† Which is not wholly a bad thing. I took the hellhounds along the first time and hurtled them in the farmland, splendidly riddled with footpaths, beyond the storage place—loading Atlas’ trailer with book boxes is not really a two person job—and then brought the hellterror the second time and hurtled her. The hellhounds aren’t what I’d call safe to stock, but they do know I won’t let them chase anything interesting. The hellterror got a little overexcited because she hasn’t had as many long country hurtles as the hellhounds had at her age but I’m still bigger than she is. And she was so beside herself about the game birds that she missed a perfectly good rabbit sitting in the middle of a stubble field.
‡ We did this today^ in case it Did Not End Well because his only other free day before his fortnight away is Thursday,
^ When I could have been having my first voice lesson after a way-too-long break. Summer holidays are overrated.
‡‡ Some of those boxes have been loaded and reloaded and written on and written over and written over the over so often they probably need new shock absorbers. And speaking of the disintegration of crucial parts I wish to remark again on the sheer bloody awfulness of British tape. I swear half the frelling boxes’ bottoms are falling out because the heavy packing tape has lost the will to live and started falling off like hair from a hellmob. Grrrrrrr.
‡‡‡ Which is full of Atlas’ tools and unfinished projects and leftover stuff from moving house. And I need to get it cleared out before the first frosts so I can get plants in there and the growlight back from the cottage’s sitting room. ARRRRRRRRRGH. Maybe I’ll lie down till January. No, March.
§ Which seems to have been something he picked up bouncing over back roads, which then clattered its way back out again. I HOPE. But I wasted about five minutes crawling around on my hands and knees trying to find . . . whatever.
§§ I HATE BICYCLES. I am not sane on this subject.^ I have many friends who ride bicycles regularly and I have at least two who frelling race. I HATE BICYCLES. If there isn’t room on a given road for a car to pass a bicycle it should be BANNED to bicycles.^^ They are a sodding hazard. And for example today there were I think eight cars behind this bozo going fifteen miles an hour—which is a perfectly good speed for a bicycle—before we could get past him. It regularly happens in the local equivalent of rush hour that #8 in the queue out of town will simply rocket on by the rest of us, white-knuckled with fury at our steering wheels ourselves, with the bicycle in the lead—and those adrenaline spikes when I’m waiting for all of us to die in a colossal pile up when a juggernaut comes over the hill and hits #8 on the wrong side of the road are very bad for me.
^ Consider yourselves warned. This is my blog. You want to argue about it, go elsewhere.
^^ Or to cars. But these two forms of vehicular transport are incompatible on shared road space. And I don’t want bicycles mowing down the hellmob and me on the pavement either.
§§§ You don’t have to be in pain already to take arnica. The likely prospect will do. If you know you’ve overdone it but you don’t know how badly . . . take some arnica. And maybe you won’t have to find out.
Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.