Moving alla Milanese
Some of you will have heard/read of my travelling companion’s angst at our cramped living facilities, and his desperate need for Just a Little Bit of Space. Last week the situation came to a head. Yes, it’s a sad day when domestic violence rears its ugly head. Sigh.
Ok, so not really. This was Tot A masked and bespectacled and ready to wage war on the ferocious woodworm-slash-termite that has chomping down on the beams of his bedroom in Tuscany. The horrid little thing has terrible table manners and eats with its mouth open whilst making a hideous (and loud) clacking noise that prevents our Tot from getting a good night’s sleep. This of course cannot be tolerated and so he spent a morning wobbling around on various and dangerous contraptions painting toxic liquid onto all wooden item in the room. I basked in the unseasonal sunshine outside whilst watering the olives, hoping that he wouldn’t get any ideas about doing the same to his flatmates.
However, the lack of space really has been somewhat of an issue. I, as someone who has chosen to live On My Own for five years, and picked a profession where I get to sit all day in silent libraries wearing earplugs, can feel my Tot’s pain. Although I hate to quote Martin Amis, a writer is someone who’s most alive when they’re alone. And it is mildly disconcerting to wake up and find a man snoring gently next to you. Especially when you’re not hungover and it’s someone you actually know.
So whilst A popped off for a weekend to visit his mother, I volunteered to help his sister pack up her things into boxes ready for The Move, which is planned for next weekend.
When I move house in the UK, I get up and put on my oldest clothes, scrape hair back into a ponytail and go off to hire a truck, which I secretly rather enjoy driving around London, packet of Marlboro tucked into my t-shirt sleeve a la James Dean, and feeling rather butch.
Not so in Milan.
10.00: The day begins with a trip to Pam, our local supermarket where E flutters her eyelashes at a surly young man and asked for some boxes. He tells us to come back at 2.30.
11.00: E goes off to the hairdressers whilst I wander around looking for somewhere that sells packing tape. My vocabulary stretched beyond its limit, I am reduced to muttering about Scotch.
13.30: Looking radiant and groomed, E rocks up to meet me on via Savona, one of Milan’s fashionable streets (where what I like to think of as my office, the Design Library is based). We go for lunch with some of our friends.
14.45: Panicking lightly about the boxes, I nudge E towards the supermarket. We stop at the street market on the way to buy some nibbles for an aperitivo later on. At my suggestion, we also purchase a case of Sicilian red wine.
15.15: Arrive at the supermarket. More fluttering results in the manager giving us not only a huge pile of boxes but suggesting that we take a trolley to transport them in. I am beginning to see the point of this flirting thing.
15.45: E and I begin to pack things into boxes. The ensuing chaos is somewhat overwhelming but we push on through.
16.00: Start to wonder when helpful friends might be turning up.
16.45: Friend turns up with cake. Stop to consume said cake.
16.50: Friend begins to bang on about the previous night’s club conquests and kissing boys. I escape to bathroom and start putting make-up into boxes.
17.10: Other friend arrives. Friend 1 begins to retell kissing stories. I suggest mildly that they may like to pack away summer dresses.
The next 45 minutes is spent commenting on said dresses, discussing clothes and shoes etc. I take refuge in the other room, filling boxes with books. Wonder if it’s too soon to open the wine.
18.00: The girls decide that we’ve worked hard enough for one day and must go shopping IMMEDIATELY. Follow them out into the street of Milan, feeling slightly dazed.
20.00: 3 pairs of earrings, a necklace, a skirt, a dress and a bag later, we come home and consume wine + nibbles. All agree that we’ve Done Very Well.
20.30: Go out to dinner.
Boxes packed: 8
Items left still to be stowed away: 653
Ok, so not really. This was Tot A masked and bespectacled and ready to wage war on the ferocious woodworm-slash-termite that has chomping down on the beams of his bedroom in Tuscany. The horrid little thing has terrible table manners and eats with its mouth open whilst making a hideous (and loud) clacking noise that prevents our Tot from getting a good night’s sleep. This of course cannot be tolerated and so he spent a morning wobbling around on various and dangerous contraptions painting toxic liquid onto all wooden item in the room. I basked in the unseasonal sunshine outside whilst watering the olives, hoping that he wouldn’t get any ideas about doing the same to his flatmates.
However, the lack of space really has been somewhat of an issue. I, as someone who has chosen to live On My Own for five years, and picked a profession where I get to sit all day in silent libraries wearing earplugs, can feel my Tot’s pain. Although I hate to quote Martin Amis, a writer is someone who’s most alive when they’re alone. And it is mildly disconcerting to wake up and find a man snoring gently next to you. Especially when you’re not hungover and it’s someone you actually know.
So whilst A popped off for a weekend to visit his mother, I volunteered to help his sister pack up her things into boxes ready for The Move, which is planned for next weekend.
When I move house in the UK, I get up and put on my oldest clothes, scrape hair back into a ponytail and go off to hire a truck, which I secretly rather enjoy driving around London, packet of Marlboro tucked into my t-shirt sleeve a la James Dean, and feeling rather butch.
Not so in Milan.
10.00: The day begins with a trip to Pam, our local supermarket where E flutters her eyelashes at a surly young man and asked for some boxes. He tells us to come back at 2.30.
11.00: E goes off to the hairdressers whilst I wander around looking for somewhere that sells packing tape. My vocabulary stretched beyond its limit, I am reduced to muttering about Scotch.
13.30: Looking radiant and groomed, E rocks up to meet me on via Savona, one of Milan’s fashionable streets (where what I like to think of as my office, the Design Library is based). We go for lunch with some of our friends.
14.45: Panicking lightly about the boxes, I nudge E towards the supermarket. We stop at the street market on the way to buy some nibbles for an aperitivo later on. At my suggestion, we also purchase a case of Sicilian red wine.
15.15: Arrive at the supermarket. More fluttering results in the manager giving us not only a huge pile of boxes but suggesting that we take a trolley to transport them in. I am beginning to see the point of this flirting thing.
15.45: E and I begin to pack things into boxes. The ensuing chaos is somewhat overwhelming but we push on through.
16.00: Start to wonder when helpful friends might be turning up.
16.45: Friend turns up with cake. Stop to consume said cake.
16.50: Friend begins to bang on about the previous night’s club conquests and kissing boys. I escape to bathroom and start putting make-up into boxes.
17.10: Other friend arrives. Friend 1 begins to retell kissing stories. I suggest mildly that they may like to pack away summer dresses.
The next 45 minutes is spent commenting on said dresses, discussing clothes and shoes etc. I take refuge in the other room, filling boxes with books. Wonder if it’s too soon to open the wine.
18.00: The girls decide that we’ve worked hard enough for one day and must go shopping IMMEDIATELY. Follow them out into the street of Milan, feeling slightly dazed.
20.00: 3 pairs of earrings, a necklace, a skirt, a dress and a bag later, we come home and consume wine + nibbles. All agree that we’ve Done Very Well.
20.30: Go out to dinner.
Boxes packed: 8
Items left still to be stowed away: 653
posted by Lady V at 3:23 pm
5 Comments:
The important thing is that you looked FAB while doing it. Wouldn't want to break a nail, would we?
PLEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASE
get out. pleaes get out. please get out. please get out. please get OUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT!!!!!!!!!!
I know right.
Can't believe Albeo didn't help pack or go shopping with you.
how cheeky of him
Little fucker...
i think i would have snapped
barked at elena in krause fashion
and told her she was not leaving
said apartment until
all items were packed or thrown.
and looked angry while saying it
please let me know in future when my rottweiler services might come in handy.
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