The day after

2 September. The day after our epic move. Which is probably a total understatement in itself. I had my reservations that Move Day will turn out like that. And it did. So this post is dedicated to the fuckin' movers who: 1. didn't turn up 2. didn't call 3. nor return my calls 4. nor had the decency to call and apologise for their no-show Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nut-hing. BIG BIG BIG kudos to Andrew and Stuart for holding the fort and getting their gym-ripped bods in gear to pick up the buck, cos we would have been royally screwed if we didn't moved on that day. The boys endured eight long arduous hours of hard, intensive labour moving some 50 boxes between us up and down two 3rd story brownstones!!!! (Note: Brownstones tend to have very narrow stairwells) And what did I do, you are going to ask? Well, hmm, apart from lugging the ironing board, laundry basket, laptop, and a few chairs, I held the door, watched the truck and at one point, even sat on our vintage Overman along the street (I might as well have been reading at the same time) to make sure it doesn't get mistaken as a freebie or worse, trash. Today, my calves are aching more than my toughest body pump class and Andrew felt so massively 'crippled' this morning, it was as if he ran a 100-mile marathon. And funnily, his fingers are still in the default clenched position. Lol.