| |
|
Worse. It was my father's truck. Accordioned like a motherfucker. Front and rear. So had to complete the move in the only thing I could find to rent - a three-tonne enclosed truck. One that beeped when reversing, and everything. Expensivo! (And I haven't even thought of the insurance excess yet. Christ.)
I have too much shit, officially. Boxes of books - and there's still about twelve in storage - and more CDs than should be allowable. However, my room is sorta assembled, and I have my fez on one of my bookshelves, so that kinda works. I've just gotta air the place out a bit; it's got that dead cigarette smell all around, but I think a good bit of incense and some cooking - when the fridge arrives! - will help that out. Am a bit concerned about organising stuff and about crap that doesn't work but shouldn't, but hey - I have a mostly established room that has a) bookshelves, b) my guitar amp for wailing and rockin', c) a new computer desk, d) a NEW BED! and e) an ensuite, so I'm pretty happy with that, even if the rest of the place looks like shit on a stick at the moment.
Oh, I forgot to mention the old GE fan I've finally been able to use! It rocks hard, because I think it's actually an aircraft engine that's been mounted on a pedestal. You put it on and it makes a big "vunnnnnnnnnnnnng" noise, providing enough turbulence on the first setting to blow hair and aviation scarves out to natty angles. I hope to use it as an offensive weapon on people who won't leave at the end of parties. And there's none of those plastic blades to curtail injuries: this is finger-death waiting to happen. Given that it lives on top of my amp, which is inconveniently at crotch-height, unless I take a marked interest in Viennese Actionist-stylee art, it'll curtail any bare-arsed walking about...
Not that anyone really needed to picture that.
Ah, if y'didn't laugh, you'd cry. Or go blind. |
|
|
