On a day of pelting rain in September, I lashed out a small fortune on a new suite.
Oh the excitement of getting rid of my 30-year-old relic and welcoming the bums of my Christmas guests to cushioned luxury. Nae chunce. They told me then and there it would be January before delivery.
And so it came to pass; got my date for last Thursday pm. Booked Instant Neighbour for the morning to take away the oldie – hopefully still in a condition for them to accept. Then came over me this fairly Mo-typical sense of dread. I just had a feeling in my watter it wouldn’t all go smoothly.
Mainly I was afeart they wouldn’t be able to get the old one oot and/or the new in. How a’body laughed: if they got it in when you moved 16 years ago, they’re bound to get it oot. I wisna laughin’.
The space was too narrow
The three lovely Instant Neighbour mannies assured me they’d never failed in extricating any furniture… ah, but this is me.
First problem; they couldn’t get the sofa from the living room past the big fridge at the door of the kitchen. Maybe have to move it. I suggested the door at the other end of the living room, directly opposite a bedroom, so plenty room to manoeuvre. Sure enough, they slid it through no hassle. On to the door to the porch. No way Jose was that sofa going through; the space far too narrow, yet that was the only way to the front door. Mummy, daddy, fit’ll’I’dee? In desperation, I suggested the French door into the back garden. Would it be big enough? And would my side gate be too little?
With barely centimeters to spare (including the remains of my finger-nails) they were through and out with the lot. Thanks guys. Hope Old Faithful is enjoyed in its new home.
Window of opportunity
Then … Oh mummy, daddy, second verse. I knew only too well my new suite was a damnt sight chunkier than the oldie, upholstery brand-new plump, ie they probably wouldn’t get it through that same French window. Fit then? Remove the roof?
Three nice gadgies from Sainsbury’s arrived, bright and breezy, assuring me not to worry. As I hovered and garbled in a panic, the main man wisely indicated I should leave them to it. Into the kitchen I bobbed. Hung aboot for a few minties, then had to check on progress.
Imagine my shock when I discovered that not only was the French window open, but the huge pane of glass to which it was attached was gone. Nothing but a huge gap big enough to drive a truck through. Fit the …?
Sez the mannie: “Didn’t you know that part of the window also opened out?”
All these years and I hadn’t a clue. Then, hud on, a wee bittie light started emerging from the depths of my foggy memory.
Slowly it came back to me; that’s what the removal gadgies had done way back in 2005. And I’ve never had it open since. Spik aboot a neep-heid.
- Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970.
