The move

Seemed long the first time around

What does one say about a move? At first glance, it’s not easy to come up with a compelling story. After all, moving simply means taking all of your belongings/furniture/grudges from one set of walls to the other: hardly Man Booker material. 

Between me and you, it’s unlikely anyone will take pleasure in reading about how long it took us to win a fictional game of Tetris (with a less exotic van as backdrop in place of the classic Kremlin) with our furniture, how many times the cabling I personally pulled out the walls could wrap around the Silicon Roundabout or how many pint glasses out of 29 one can fit into a pitifully small cardboard box.

I mean, the man-with-a-van himself couldn’t have been less interested and he was getting paid (granted he was not paid to show interest as that would’ve cost us a small fortune, as far as MWV hires go). To think that an unpaid, unrewarded reader like you could feel any different is, frankly, ludicrous even for the most diehard optimist: “I’ve never even seen the place”, you quietly think.

“I don’t give a flying monkey about what they did with it”
But enough negativity; there’s no turning back: the move has indeed happened, we’re here and you’re gonna read about it whether you like it or not.

To pick up on what we’ve just mentioned, the move happened all week. Front to end, back to back, whichever expression you normally use to indicate two consecutive periods of time.

On the first weekend, we all had paintbrushes in our hands and paint buckets around our feet, as if in a devilish art academy obstacle course designed to test your eye-brush-feet coordination as well as your patience. But after approximately 2 days of brushing, washing paint out of our clothes and muffled cursing, the place was a hell of a lot whiter than when we first got there…and not in the sense we gave it the gentrifying coup de grace (although some of us now exclusively take their flat whites from a pop-up coffee truck)

But the coming week would be the most testing time for us all, putting our friendships and endurance to the test.

“You’ll never get it done, I’m leaving”, proclaimed an old friend over the whizzing and screeching of power-drills and circular saws, hard at work turning old benches into rustic-chic lopsided bookshelves.

“That’s the wrong way around, we’re gonna have to take it apart”, sighed another for a fourth time, a subtle scent of white wine vinegar rising from their hands, the same vinegar that had been used to treat some of our materials (I’ll let you figure out the “whats” and “wheres”) and would soon dress a meal-deal salad.

“Where do I screw the fifth leg in?”, I muttered, gripping a screwdriver by the head, my own head directly above a generously sized bucket of extremely pungent-smelling varnish as its fumes snaked their way into my respiratory tract(s)`

Now I don’t remember much after that…or I don’t want to. I do remember finding myself curled up on a large carpet of fake grass with 18 (Allen keys), mostly the same size, in my pocket. We’d done it. Or at least, someone had. Whether I forgot by chance or actually forced myself to remove most of that ghastly week from my mental records is of little interest to you or me. 

You could file a complaint with my editor but he’s unlikely to care either.

Who are you anyway? Are you even there? YOU probably stopped reading before we even got our stuff into the van and I’m probably blabbering on for no reason. Still, I suppose any sort of commentary deserves a proper conclusion, regardless of who is left there to hear it. And I suppose you want that now.

The bottom line? While the end result may be ABSOLUTELY MIND BLOWING (yea you might have to come and see it for yourself), the road leading to such beauty is often winding and littered with pitfalls. The space we now all enjoy cost us the sweat of our brows, some friendships and light instances of chemical intoxication. But its given it a completely new aura, one of warmth and familiarity. I can now look at the magnificent centrepiece occupying the front of our stage, knowing that someone very close to me designed and mounted it, all the while cursing it more than Tutankhamun’s tomb cursed Howard Carter. Or that corner where I banged my thumb with a hammer stupid-teen times. Memories. Memories everywhere.

 (…and I’ve just remembered we’re offering superbly discounted rates on our homemade workspace (just like mama used to make it) so come C-C-CALL us now before we come to our senses and ditch the workspace for bitcoin trading or a microbrewery)