Saturday 9 December 2017

#337 Leaving the Isle of Dogs

Six o'clock, Friday night. I was sat in my room waiting for the van driver. My possessions were stacked against the far wall, bagged up into ten loads.

I'd imagined this week. The week in between finding a new room and moving. It was supposed to be an easier time and it had been. Selling things and packing had been much simpler and less stressful than arranging and attending viewings.

There was no nostalgia though. No sense of peace or meaningful strolls around the area for the last time. About the closest I'd come to anything like that had been the trip to Pizza Express earlier in the week. I'd thought about saying goodbye to the pigs at Mudchute Farm. It was cold and far though.

If it'd been earlier in the evening, I might've popped over to Greenwich for a pie but packing had been seriously time-consuming. I wondered whether the landlord would approve of the volume of my belongings. Ten loads wasn't going to fill up the room but five would have been easier to explain. Plenty of foreigners came to London with just two bags.

Would I be able to do all the loading and unloading myself? I'd selected that option when booking the van. I could certainly lift everything but until now, I hadn't properly thought about carrying it up three flights at the other end. That was some serious work. I hadn't exercised properly in weeks.

It would probably be ok. I could bring the light stuff first. Take things at a moderate pace. Maybe the driver would help anyway. It would speed up the journey for him. I mean what else was he going to do, sit and watch? Possibly. We would have to see.

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