I came home last week to a totally different interior. B met me at the door and at my glance around, told me, “Don’t say a word!” Great partner that I am, I didn’t. By now I am used to her moving around the living room furniture every so often. I just took my satchel to the room and stopped in my tracks like Balaam’s donkey seeing the angel.
The room looked totally different. Still as silent as a mummy, I surveyed the other two bedrooms, which also looked like rooms from a different house. B had moved all the beds around (with assistance of our dog/child minder-cum-companion-cum domestic worker). I sighed heavily inwardly, but kept as schtum as B asked me to be. I had just gotten used to the sleeping arrangements caused by pooch, who might be a small breed, but sleeps sideways across the double bed and causes agony to middle-aged legs with osteo-arthritic knees. (No, I am not going to expand on the sleeping arrangements!) To put it mildly, I was not a happy camper, but I kept my mouth shut. For two whole days. It asked for every grain of willpower I could summon.
Two days later, having cropped up frustration with things that are not where I am used they should be, I blew a minor fuse. Not loudly, not aggressively, just very assertively. Balaam’s donkey had been granted a voice.
By then B had picked up on the vibes, or my body language or had used her feminine sixth sense, and knew I was very annoyed (the p-ed off term comes strongly to mind) with sleeping in a different bed and she meekly agreed to my demand: the beds would be moved back to the original rooms on the Saturday.
Saturday arrived and we girded our loins for the move. Before continuing, I must just mention that my second name should have been Klutz. I am forever bruised from bumping into all kinds of furniture and B constantly reminds me in shops to stick to the middle of aisles so that I do not bump over or break stuff on display. I can’t help it, it is just the way I am glued together. The proverbial bull in a china shop. You know that notice in shops:
“Delightful to look at,
lovely to hold,
but if you drop it,
we take it as sold.”
They must have had encounters with me in one or more of my previous lives…
Back to the move. We were both already tired from the morning’s chores and grocery shopping, so the move started under a black emotional thundercloud and both our tempers have short fuses in any case. Me being the one to get things over and done with, and B being the cautious, planning type, we clashed from the word go. Suffice to say, there was a lot of shouting and heavy swearing being done.
And with my uncoordinated nature in mind, B’s instructions would consist of something like this:
“One, two, watch that picture behind you, lift!”
In spite of the warnings, I did end up bumping into a few things, moving up her temper a few notches and causing her to issue more warnings. At one stage I grabbed my bedside table, which had a number of books stacked on the bottom shelf.
B yelled, “Think before you move!”
I, by then tired, sweaty and anxious to finish the job, bellowed back, “I don’t need to think to move!” (Cue in Beethoven’s Fifth – da da da daaaaa…)
The stack of books toppled and scattered in all directions. B and I dissolved in peals of laughter, the tension broken. The rest of the move went smoothly.
I had her promise that she would NEVER again move the beds and I in turn swore to KILL her if she did.
Pooch slept through the whole War and Peace.