Mr Bean Moves House

Yesterday I moved house. To say it was a nightmare would be a gross understatement. Packing was easy, it lulled me into a false sense of security. Mum and dad lent me their suitcase, so I didn’t have to individually roll every item of clothing into tight cylinders and compress them into my suitcases as I had on the way here. I even had some space left over in the third suitcase, which I blithely filled with the watercolour painting which some randomer generously gifted me in a bar a few weeks ago. Encouraged by this minor and totally needless success, I decided to try to cram all the non-perishables in the kitchen into a strong plastic bag and bring them as well. And some perishables too…

So, at exactly the time I told Kiril to drop by and pick me up, I was ready with three suitcases, a rucksack, and a plastic bag, all full to bursting. I gave Aygul my address in England so that she can write to me when she moves to Poland, gave her a hug, and then breezed out the door. Actually, I didn’t quite breeze out. I sort of clunked out. Turns out three is not the optimal number of suitcases. Even for a hulk like me. I looped the plastic bag around the handle of one, called the lift to take me down to the ground floor, and dragged the first suitcase into it. Then I went back to get the second suitcase. By the time I’d returned to the lift, the doors had closed. I pressed the ‘call lift’ button, but it turns out you can’t call it to the same floor it’s already on. My imagination exploded with images of  babushkas up on floor 9 calling the lift, finding a suitcase full of jumpers in it, and gleefully pushing it back into the depths of their flat to flog the contents online. Dragging the other two suitcases and a plastic bag down the stairs behind me, I sprinted down to the floor below, and called the lift. My relief when it arrived was lessened by the awful realisation that the same thing was about to happen. Sure enough, I only had time to put one suitcase in before the doors slammed shut. The whole process repeated itself: the panic, the imagination running riot, the suitcase thudding down the stairs behind me. The lift button was broken on the next floor down, so I had to leg it down another floor, the image of a gleeful babushka discovering my suitcases still haunting my mind. Panting, I stumbled down another floor, and triumphantly called the lift. After shoving the last suitcase in, I didn’t even have the energy to collapse into the lift myself, and allowed the doors to close on my face one last time before running down the last two floors and calling the lift to the ground floor. The task of getting the bags out the lift was equally complicated, and involved going up a floor and down a floor a couple of times. I took one suitcase out of the house and then, going back for the next two, the door was about to close, locking me out. I grabbed it in time, and went back in for the next two.

To get to the parking area where Kiril was going to pick me up, I had to drag two suitcases behind me (one in each hand), and kick the third one ahead of me. That walk has never felt so long. When I triumphantly arrived at the parking area, Kiril phoned, and said that he wasn’t at the front of the house, but at the back – a ten-minute walk away. I imagine that anyone who’d seen me when I heard that news would confirm that I looked (and felt) like a deflating balloon. I set off, kicking the suitcase in front of me with increasing vehemence. I soon arrived at some steps, and did the 'take two leave one then reverse' trick. My but it was difficult. By the time the tarmac ran out, I was repeatedly taking two suitcases ten metres, then going back for the third. The bag of apples within the plastic bag had somehow torn itself open, and they were spilling out (almost tripping me up) whenever I wasn’t paying attention. It was getting dark, and I’d already been dragging the suitcases along for fifteen minutes. But another fifteen minutes later, after three people had offered to help me with the bags and two others had tried to steal them, I finally ended up at Kiril’s beautiful beautiful Volkswagen. Then there was a traffic jam. And finally, arriving at my new flat, I realised that the jar of honey in the carrier bag had split. The honey had been pouring down the back of the suitcase which I put the carrier bag on, and my trousers and jumper were coated with the stuff.

Fortunately for me, Max (my new flatmate) has a sense of humour, and he wasn’t as horrified as you’d expect someone to be if you turned up at their flat, gave them a honey-ey hand shake, and deposited a carrier bag leaking honey on their kitchen table. He helped me clean up the mess, and then we made an apple cake and kasha with pumpkin. Max is awesome. He’s a student (about my age), he’s very relaxed, and he has almost exactly the same taste in music and cinema as I do. I couldn’t believe it when he started enthusing about the French film Intouchables. He’s also incredibly tolerant of my limited Russian. The best language mistake so far was when he asked me what we do on Christmas, and I, naturally, said ‘well normally people lie to each other’

‘You… lie to each other?’

‘Yep… or maybe. No wait. I mean give each other presents.’