The movers showed up at 6 and piled all our furniture on the back patio (weather pretty dependably sunny in Palookaville in June). Looks like we’ve had a visitation of bailiffs.
A panel truck backed in about 7 with the new stuff extruding from the back end. Two buff-looking guys popped out, strapped on their knee pads (well-greaved carpet-layers, as Homer would say) and carried in their tools— not excluding a radio, now blatting in the back room, soft rock, not loud, really, but not entirely to my taste. Mrs. B is off to the doctor’s. I have nothing much to do but continue perching and not trip up a buff guy carrying a roll of carpet.
[But I just tumbled to the fact that Mrs. B unplugged the DSL router, so “live” in this case will mean “retrospective,” or “delayed.” ]
Mid-morning: it is pretty clear these guys get paid by the job, not the hour; they haven’t stopped for a breath since they got here, and you feel that if you got in their way, they’d wrap you up in a carpet, like Cleopatra on her way to greet Casesar. The supervisor showed up for a look-see: “They’re not very far along yet,” she said, although it is hard to imagine that they could be any further. “I guess I will have to come back. I just love to see this stuff on the floor.”
Late Morning: The guys took an early lunch break, to get rid of the old carpet. Good thing, too, the music was getting to me. Ah, peace at last. … If all goes well, we ought to have our house back by 5 o’clock. Wish us well.
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