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Momo Sushi, Camberwell Church Street
The GLDHI and I moved into our new place in August 2020. This meant that her flat in Camberwell was now empty.
In September 2020, we had the following conversation:
‘When are you going to get the builders and decorators in to tart it up and then let it? You’re losing £1500+ per month in income’
‘Soon’
Rinse and repeat approximately every month for 18 months.
Well, I say rinse and repeat. In the latter months the conversation went more like:
‘When…’
‘I know, I know’, said over her shoulder as she walked away from me to attend to some task not remotely close to as important as the one I was reminding her about.
I once tried shaming her:
‘You do realise that since we moved here, I’ve arranged builders and decorators to gut, refurbish, and redecorate the annexe for my mother, gut and refurbish the pool, gut and refurbish the bathroom in the downstairs flat, knocked down the Dutch barn and sowed a wild flower meadow, got architectural drawings for a structure to change the pool from being outside to inside, applied for planning permission to convert a workshop into two en-suite bedrooms, and am now talking to kitchen designers for the main kitchen?’
‘And your point is? Besides, I like the kitchen the way it is’.
Anyway, she eventually got round to it.
One Friday afternoon a couple of weeks back we drove over to her flat to pack the final remaining boxes ready for a man in a van to come the following Tuesday to move them into the workshop here. The workshop I’ve spent six months emptying in preparation for conversion into two en-suite bedrooms just as soon as the planning permission and LBC come through.
My task comprised filling boxes and putting them in one of three places: on the floor ready for the man and a van, carrying them down 39 steps to the recycling area, and carrying them down 39 steps to the car (if they contained items too precious to entrust to the man and a van). One item fitting the last description was a 3’ tall martini glass I’d bought her a few years ago as a Christmas present when I sussed that a chamois from the local garage probably wouldn’t be appreciated.
‘Now’, I mused, ‘how am I going to get this thing safely home?’
I determined that standing it in the rear near-side footwell was my best option. ‘Great, that works. Now I need to wedge it in. I know. There’s a couple of bin bags of pillows and duvets upstairs. I’ll use those’. Back up 39 steps to the flat, and down 39 steps carrying two bin bags. I open the rear near-side door to assess the next stage in this delicate but important operation.
‘Hmm. I reckon I should put the first bag in from the other side, wedge it in, and then go round and wedge it in from the near side’. So I do that.
SMASH.
I’d left the near-side door open.
I go round to assess the damage. Total. Bits of glass all over the pavement, in the gutter, and under the car, including some lying jauntily up against my tyres.
Back up 39 steps.
‘Umm. I’m really sorry, but I’ve smashed your martini glass’
‘Oh really? That’s a shame’
For the first time, it dawns on me that she might well have preferred a chamois.
‘Where’s the dustpan and brush?’
Back down 39 steps with said domestic tool. 45 minutes clearing up.
Back up 39 steps.
‘Do you always count the number of steps?’
‘Yes. I thought you knew’
‘Umm. No, I didn’t. Really?’
‘Yes’
‘Why?’
‘How else would I know how many steps there are?’’
‘Umm’. Pause ‘Umm… never mind. No, I don’t believe you. How many steps are there from the ground floor of our new house to the first floor?’
‘17’
Her mouth falls open.
On a roll, I continue ‘…11 from the ground floor to the basement flat. 8 from the pool to the back drive. There were 14 in my last house, and there are 15 in your mother’s house. Shall I go on?’
She looks at me in wonder and awe. I think.
‘What’s next?’ I ask.
‘Sort through those empty wine bottles and throw away the ones you don’t want to keep’. I keep the empty bottles of wines I have really enjoyed as a memento.
‘Ok’
I fill a box with empties, keeping aside 4 that have to be added to my permanent collection stored for the moment in the, err, workshop.
I start down the 39 steps to the recycling bin with the losers.
SMASH.
The bottom of the box had failed. Smashed glass everywhere. The downstairs neighbour comes out.
‘WTF was that?’
I gesture mournfully.
‘Quite a few empty ‘78 La Chapelle bottles. It’s ok though, I have one with a better label in my collection already’.
He looked at me in wonder and awe. I think.
I spend an hour and a half getting glass off the new stair carpet. Thankfully, it was only on 27 of the steps as the box had held firm for the first 12.
‘What next?’, I ask.
‘Why don’t you just sit down for a few minutes? I’m nearly finished’.
I assess my afternoon’s contribution. Two boxes packed. And four empty wine bottles selected to join my collection.
‘Pretty good’ I muse.
‘You know I think you’re amazing’ starts the GLDHI as we walk to Camberwell Church Street to get something to eat before driving home with two bin bags of pillows and duvets.
‘Thank you, dear’
‘But I have a suggestion’, she continues. ‘Don’t ever become a removals man’.
She first giggles, then laughs.
I look at her blankly.
She stops in the street to focus on her laughing and starts gulping in an effort to breathe through her laughter.
I look at her blankly before continuing to walk down Camberwell Grove.
‘Wait for me’, she manages to call.
‘Now, where shall we eat?’ I say. There’s several choices we’ve tried before, ranging from very good to outstanding.
‘Let’s try this new place’. I gesture at Momo.
‘Umm. We said we’d never eat sushi at anywhere other than Sushi Tetsu. Remember? We’re always disappointed.’
‘It’ll be fine’, I respond as I walk in in an attempt to restore the natural order of things.
It was rubbish. Don’t go.
‘There ARE 17 steps’, the GLDHI exclaims as she walks into the bedroom that night.
‘I know’, I reply. ‘Did you know that the app on my phone says that I climbed 68 flights of stairs this afternoon?’
‘I love you so much’, says the GLDHI
I roll over and pretend to go to sleep as she shakes with suppressed laughter beside me.
‘I love you too’ I say.
Addendum:
‘Have you written the review for Momo yet?’, the GLDHI asks on her return from Nice.
‘Yes’
‘Can I see it please’
I hand my phone over to her. She starts reading, and hands it back after reading the first three or four paragraphs. She’s pouting.
‘It gets better [for you]’, I say, handing it back
She starts reading again. And then giggles. And then starts laughing as the memory of my removals prowess comes back.
‘I love you so much’ she says.
I walk off to the kitchen to get us a refill of single malt, saying nothing.
I hand her her glass. She looks up at me from her seat on the new sofa and starts shaking.
‘FFS’
The GLDHI and I moved into our new place in August 2020. This meant that her flat in Camberwell was now empty.
In September 2020, we had the following conversation:
‘When are you going to get the builders and decorators in to tart it up and then let it? You’re losing £1500+ per month in income’
‘Soon’
Rinse and repeat approximately every month for 18 months.
Well, I say rinse and repeat. In the latter months the conversation went more like:
‘When…’
‘I know, I know’, said over her shoulder as she walked away from me to attend to some task not remotely close to as important as the one I was reminding her about.
I once tried shaming her:
‘You do realise that since we moved here, I’ve arranged builders and decorators to gut, refurbish, and redecorate the annexe for my mother, gut and refurbish the pool, gut and refurbish the bathroom in the downstairs flat, knocked down the Dutch barn and sowed a wild flower meadow, got architectural drawings for a structure to change the pool from being outside to inside, applied for planning permission to convert a workshop into two en-suite bedrooms, and am now talking to kitchen designers for the main kitchen?’
‘And your point is? Besides, I like the kitchen the way it is’.
Anyway, she eventually got round to it.
One Friday afternoon a couple of weeks back we drove over to her flat to pack the final remaining boxes ready for a man in a van to come the following Tuesday to move them into the workshop here. The workshop I’ve spent six months emptying in preparation for conversion into two en-suite bedrooms just as soon as the planning permission and LBC come through.
My task comprised filling boxes and putting them in one of three places: on the floor ready for the man and a van, carrying them down 39 steps to the recycling area, and carrying them down 39 steps to the car (if they contained items too precious to entrust to the man and a van). One item fitting the last description was a 3’ tall martini glass I’d bought her a few years ago as a Christmas present when I sussed that a chamois from the local garage probably wouldn’t be appreciated.
‘Now’, I mused, ‘how am I going to get this thing safely home?’
I determined that standing it in the rear near-side footwell was my best option. ‘Great, that works. Now I need to wedge it in. I know. There’s a couple of bin bags of pillows and duvets upstairs. I’ll use those’. Back up 39 steps to the flat, and down 39 steps carrying two bin bags. I open the rear near-side door to assess the next stage in this delicate but important operation.
‘Hmm. I reckon I should put the first bag in from the other side, wedge it in, and then go round and wedge it in from the near side’. So I do that.
SMASH.
I’d left the near-side door open.
I go round to assess the damage. Total. Bits of glass all over the pavement, in the gutter, and under the car, including some lying jauntily up against my tyres.
Back up 39 steps.
‘Umm. I’m really sorry, but I’ve smashed your martini glass’
‘Oh really? That’s a shame’
For the first time, it dawns on me that she might well have preferred a chamois.
‘Where’s the dustpan and brush?’
Back down 39 steps with said domestic tool. 45 minutes clearing up.
Back up 39 steps.
‘Do you always count the number of steps?’
‘Yes. I thought you knew’
‘Umm. No, I didn’t. Really?’
‘Yes’
‘Why?’
‘How else would I know how many steps there are?’’
‘Umm’. Pause ‘Umm… never mind. No, I don’t believe you. How many steps are there from the ground floor of our new house to the first floor?’
‘17’
Her mouth falls open.
On a roll, I continue ‘…11 from the ground floor to the basement flat. 8 from the pool to the back drive. There were 14 in my last house, and there are 15 in your mother’s house. Shall I go on?’
She looks at me in wonder and awe. I think.
‘What’s next?’ I ask.
‘Sort through those empty wine bottles and throw away the ones you don’t want to keep’. I keep the empty bottles of wines I have really enjoyed as a memento.
‘Ok’
I fill a box with empties, keeping aside 4 that have to be added to my permanent collection stored for the moment in the, err, workshop.
I start down the 39 steps to the recycling bin with the losers.
SMASH.
The bottom of the box had failed. Smashed glass everywhere. The downstairs neighbour comes out.
‘WTF was that?’
I gesture mournfully.
‘Quite a few empty ‘78 La Chapelle bottles. It’s ok though, I have one with a better label in my collection already’.
He looked at me in wonder and awe. I think.
I spend an hour and a half getting glass off the new stair carpet. Thankfully, it was only on 27 of the steps as the box had held firm for the first 12.
‘What next?’, I ask.
‘Why don’t you just sit down for a few minutes? I’m nearly finished’.
I assess my afternoon’s contribution. Two boxes packed. And four empty wine bottles selected to join my collection.
‘Pretty good’ I muse.
‘You know I think you’re amazing’ starts the GLDHI as we walk to Camberwell Church Street to get something to eat before driving home with two bin bags of pillows and duvets.
‘Thank you, dear’
‘But I have a suggestion’, she continues. ‘Don’t ever become a removals man’.
She first giggles, then laughs.
I look at her blankly.
She stops in the street to focus on her laughing and starts gulping in an effort to breathe through her laughter.
I look at her blankly before continuing to walk down Camberwell Grove.
‘Wait for me’, she manages to call.
‘Now, where shall we eat?’ I say. There’s several choices we’ve tried before, ranging from very good to outstanding.
‘Let’s try this new place’. I gesture at Momo.
‘Umm. We said we’d never eat sushi at anywhere other than Sushi Tetsu. Remember? We’re always disappointed.’
‘It’ll be fine’, I respond as I walk in in an attempt to restore the natural order of things.
It was rubbish. Don’t go.
‘There ARE 17 steps’, the GLDHI exclaims as she walks into the bedroom that night.
‘I know’, I reply. ‘Did you know that the app on my phone says that I climbed 68 flights of stairs this afternoon?’
‘I love you so much’, says the GLDHI
I roll over and pretend to go to sleep as she shakes with suppressed laughter beside me.
‘I love you too’ I say.
Addendum:
‘Have you written the review for Momo yet?’, the GLDHI asks on her return from Nice.
‘Yes’
‘Can I see it please’
I hand my phone over to her. She starts reading, and hands it back after reading the first three or four paragraphs. She’s pouting.
‘It gets better [for you]’, I say, handing it back
She starts reading again. And then giggles. And then starts laughing as the memory of my removals prowess comes back.
‘I love you so much’ she says.
I walk off to the kitchen to get us a refill of single malt, saying nothing.
I hand her her glass. She looks up at me from her seat on the new sofa and starts shaking.
‘FFS’
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