My men and their van were late!
Moving during lockdown is never gonna be easy.
Fortunately their arrival reassured me that everything would be OK. For only a certain calibre of 'gangsta', would brazenly flout a 'no parking on the pavement' rule. Especially in Harringay, home of excessive parking restrictions. Their large brown boxy Luton jutted up to the pavement with authority. A rare sight, the 'monster' in prime position, outside my soon to be 'ex' front door. Frankly I couldn't wait to get cracking. Not even nature's perfectly timed shedding of womb lining, could hold me back. I was psyched for what lay ahead.
When paying by the hour for removals, the formula is simple - the harder I work - the less it costs me. Ideally my example and speed sets the pace and filters through the pack. My cheeky faced Bangladeshi men with boy smiles and a penchant for weed, had played this game before, and knew to dance to their own tune. One working the stairs and directing my anxious whippet movements with lighter loads, and the older more experienced on van 'Tetris'. I was a steam train - albeit a mini version, the type that you’d sit on and go around a small animal park on - I didn’t realise how much I needed to rest and allow my body to do it's thing.
Earlier that morning I’d plugged myself up with 'bleached cotton wool on a string', my Mooncup had been lost to the removal gods, ‘Eve’ my trusty period tracker app, told me I was good until Monday. Which was totally enough time, in my mind, to locate the items I needed to safely navigate my next 'red' phase. Eight years had passed since bleached compacted cotton wool hung around inside me. I’d been planning to donate my old collection of sanitary items to a period charity. Why on earth I still had them for ‘emergencies’ I don’t know, but finally, they came in useful.
Once upon a time I used the medium flow, yellow sheet, white applicator, now the sensation was unfamiliar, distant. With a Mooncup, gifted to me in India, I became more intimate with what’s happening - more aware of what my insides feel like. Once a month for four days I would grapple the beaded end back to the outside world, empty its dark red contents into the toilet and begin the process again.
I’ve stayed loyal to the Mooncup - the cost savings and environmental implications alone would suffice, yet also for practical reasons, less leaking and changing.
Hours had passed during which I’d been frantically ascending and descending stairs and steps as though I was mountain climbing my way to freedom. Pound coins flashing in my eyes, I was worried about my budget - whether it would stretch to getting all my life unpacked, into my new home within the allotted time. Vigorously lifting bags, boxes, mirrors, clothes, plants. Negotiating everything into the van with a smile and a disclaimer. The pain was through, at least halfway through.
As the Uber pulled up to the curb at my new address, I carefully carried the cat carrier to the safe zone I'd allotted ahead of time - inside the flat, second floor, next to my bedroom. Autumn, my 'special lady' was safe, she could hide in there until she was ready to see what the new inside world looked like. By this point I feel totally drained, shaking with hunger, dehydration and fear. Fear that I can’t maintain the physical strength I need to fully commit to the task ahead; fear of how much I'd already given. I can’t remember a time where I’d flagged this intensely, pain and emptiness reeked from my body.
I went to the toilet, I’d leaked through my favourite lucky leopard leggings. A red patch the size of a fried egg gazed up at me. How long had I been like this, had the guys noticed and been too embarrassed/polite to say anything, had the red leak managed to go unchecked, blending into camouflage of brown animal print. I needed more tampons, a change of clothes unfortunately - the latter an unattainable dream. I untucked my t-shirt, cleaned what I could. A went to the kitchen guzzled a pint of water, and rammed what little chocolate supply I had, in my mouth.
I was broken and in severe pain, the physicality of lifting heavy boxes faster than a man up flights of stairs, on the first day of my period was testing me. I’ve been through a lot in the past, nights of partying, it helps build resilience, I knew I had to 'woman up', turn on the mental block and push through.
Already the bruises are appearing over my thighs and arms and my left elbow inner side was now bleeding from an impressive scrape. A smattering of bruises over my extremities and in peculiar places cemented my commitment to the cause.
"We always smoke on the job, otherwise how would we do it".
My now stoned removal men quipped. I wish I was bloody stoned, instead of just bloody. I knew there wasn’t much time to 'dilly dally', Final peak to scale.
Inside I’m wincing, there is no room, void of my things. All three floors rammed with the equivalent of a one bedroom flat. My belongings are my connection to the past, the joy I had at my previous place and also the commitment to the idea that I will once again return to independence. I miss the open fire in my bedroom, my roof terrace laden with tomatoes. I want to belong to a building again. I know this place is a stepping stone, to my eventual claiming of land to call my own.
Everything begins to blur in the final conclusion of filling up the house, I concede to time restraints and even push over slightly. I reward my men with a monetary thank you and a wincing smile. We made it, now I have to try and get as much stuff out of the communal areas as possible before my housemate arrives home and freaks.
But first food!
I carb fuel the body with an ‘out of character’ overpriced (I really hate paying over the odds) vegan burger
and fries. My hands shake, I wrestle my conscience and exchange £15 for enough energy to keep me
going, perhaps a decent spend after all.
Google maps 'lies' and lists my house at the wrong end of the street, the 'food delivery driver' can’t find me! I leave the house, the front door delicately closes behind me, I guide the confused young man towards me.
"I'm locked out of my house now!"
He blankly hands me the quickly cooling burger and fries, meekly offers an apology and legs it.
The cold November air engulfs me, I feel numb. I'm clothed in a now grubby white t-shirt and blood soaked leggings. Voraciously stuffing non-salted, non-condimented fries in my mouth much quicker than I can eat them. I ignore the urge to cry and revert to input survival mode. I’m stripped back to my most feral, animalistic natural state. I’m a wild human animal, glazed, worn out, pushed to the extreme. I stand upright, food dripping from my lips, calculating my recovery move. I know that it will be okay, I will be okay, that I can withstand anything.
