I’ve moved house (I might have said that before). Three small words, one massive upheaval. Replete with metaphors.
I have an old chest of drawers, made of mahogany. I bought it from Austen’s of Peckham which in the mid 80’s was the best secondhand furniture shop in the world. It was arranged in layers, the higher you went up the more exotic and expensive the goods. The top floor could have been a museum. I used to shop on the ground floor, rummaging in the ordinary and cheap. I picked up a number of what seemed like incredible bargains – a sideboard, a table, some fairly awful chairs. The only thing I’ve held onto is this chest of drawers. One leg falls off when you move it, the keyholes have long since lost their keys, but it’s a fine piece of furniture and can hold a massive amount of stuff.
It’s heavy, so I have to take the drawers out to move it. What I am used to, but slightly holds me up each time, is how you can’t put it back together any old how. Even though the three bottom drawers look the same, as do the small ones at the top, they will only fit back into their own opening, and even then they require a special knack. If you force them they will stick out, get stuck, be useless and probably break.
I’m feeling a bit like this chest of drawers, with this move. The flat is lovely, and this part of the world is wonderful. My neighbours are great, the countryside is gorgeous and there are tons of brilliant things to do. Nevertheless, the drawers don’t fit quite as well as they used to, they get stuck and complain if they’re stuffed too full. They want me to handle them gently, apply wax polish to the interfaces, fill them up slowly and allow them time to get used to the hallway after all those years in the spare room.
