And so, dear reader, we were housed. Galling as it was that BOF found his belligerent optimism validated, that was the only drawback in the happy conclusion to our flat-hunting woes (apart from council tax. Who knew that adopting a salary could be so expensive?).
As I pack for the newly discovered Pimlico Pad, MD occasionally comes in to see how I'm getting on, bearing impractical pans ('This paella pan will come in handy') and nearly-out-of-date packets of expensive biscuits. She seems to believe that she is equipping me against starvation with these choice items. I, in an attempt to take things in hand, start frantically compiling lists.
Told ‘Kate, don’t worry about buying things – we’ve got everything you could possibly need in the garage’, some hours later I've efficiently extracted six wineglasses, and am clingfilming part of the acre of uneaten gammon in the fridge.
‘You can’t take that, I hardly ever eat meat,’ offers MD, bafflingly.
I put it down.
‘And you can’t take those wine glasses.’
‘I might need them.’
‘Did you know we've got almost a hundred others in the garage?’
‘I might have a party.’
I could not argue. Having participated in the ravages of MD’s festive party schedule, the chances of her gathering together a hundred friends (or two hundred, face it - they could probably share) at short notice no longer seems particularly unlikely.
Later, Pimlico-arrived and caffeine-enthused, I move wardrobes, then move them back. The flat's previous owner was evicted for non-payment of rent. She has left behind some slightly sinister baby-accoutrements. I feel guilty - it is Christmas after all, poor homeless single mother. But efficient unpacking assuages this surprisingly fast.
BOF appears with boxes and boxes of thing. I have been calling him every hour with instructions as to domestic necessities.
|Not just books - also furniture|
He looks a bit awkward. Turns out, Parents BOF have seized the news of his departure with wanton enthusiasm and have put most of his possessions in storage. As a result, what we have instead of useful pictures and the occasional rug are … books.
'Well that's … useful,' I mumble, bit disappointed. You can't hang books on walls. Neither do they make comfy sofa throws. Or good cutlery.
BOF seems to be thinking along the same lines.
'But how practical,' he riffs, optimistically, 'who needs wikipedia with this lot? And see, we can line them up along this wall and you get … instant homeliness.'