Teething problems
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: When you’re stuck indoors on a Saturday.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When you’re stuck indoors on a Saturday.
They say you shouldn't flit on a Saturday, the superstition being it'll be a short let. I'm not superstitious as such, touch wood, but after a good ten years in an attic flat, the same place I wrote twelve novels and made a start on a thirteenth, I decided I wouldn't be tempting fate.
I made the move for health reasons, finding the two flights of stairs too much of a strain on my old legs; especially after a few beers or having to hump a couple of bags of shopping.
I dropped on the ground floor flat by sheer chance, having popped in to the factor's office to enquire about what notice I would need to give. The young lady told me she had a ground floor flat available and offered to let me see it there and then. I knew before I entered that I wouldn't be taking the place but the conversation turned to where she was showing another ground floor flat later in the day. It's roughly a hundred yards from the attic flat so I had a quick nosy when I got home. I gave her an hour to show it to the prospective client then called her up at the office. The flat was still available so I arranged for her to come back out and let me have a look inside.
The minute I stepped through the door I knew I was home, that's how it felt, the spacious kitchen being the stand-out selling point.
Since I was moving 'in-house' with the same factor, so to speak, I was then able to move things along apace, giving two weeks’ notice instead of the required four and, rather cheekily, getting a hold of the keys so I could move stuff in bit by bit at my leisure.
The attic flat was part furnished but the new flat was bare. We had buried my old aunty just the week before, she was well into her nineties, and my sister, who seldom calls, rang me up out of the blue to ask could I use any of Patsy's furniture. Fortuitous or what? I hopped a bus and got myself up there quick smart, and scored a three piece suite, a washing machine, fridge freezer, a single bed for the spare room (the new flat has two bedrooms), two drop-leaf tables, chairs, lamps, a dining set, a telly and several other household items. My cousins were happy the stuff was being put to good use and so was I.
I arranged it with the owners of the attic flat to leave my washing machine and take my bed instead. There had been a double bed when I moved in but I changed it for a three-quarter to give me a bit more room.
It was Cheltenham week. A few of us gather in the pub to watch the racing and enjoy the free buffet supplied. I had been packing boxes saved for me by the girl in the corner shop to where everything was almost ready to be moved. I got a man and a van out of the local paper to shift the stuff from Patsy's and James the Tree did a couple of runs in his car with the boxes. All that was left in the attic by the Friday, Gold Cup day, was cleaning stuff and my bed. James the Tree's mate came round with his van and he and I shifted the bed, easy peasy, I was all but moved in although not officially until the Monday.
I had a good day in the pub then visited another couple of pubs closer to home. There are two sturdy locks on the new flat door so I let myself in and locked both of them behind me. I was hungry but one look at the kitchen with boxes strewn everywhere and I knew I wouldn't be cooking. There's a good Chinese not fifty yards away so I unlocked the bottom of the two locks, but had something of a struggle with the top one, finally getting it open after five minutes or so. I chose beef curry, fried rice and prawn crackers with the certain knowledge I wouldn't eat all of it, at the same time realising what was left would do for breakfast. Again I turned both keys to lock myself in, ate my supper, listened to the radio for an hour then went to bed.
Saturday morning I was as bright as a button. I put what was left of my supper in the microwave, had a quick shower, breakfasted, took one look at the job in front of me and decided I would go for a paper. The top lock proved to be a problem again, more of a problem this time because it wasn't for budging. I rang the factor and got an answering machine, they're closed on the weekends as it turns out, and besides, I shouldn't really have been there. No matter. I had food and drink, beer even, and plenty to keep me occupied until Monday so I resigned myself to being imprisoned for the duration. An hour later it dawned on me that I hadn't done the lottery. I do the same numbers every week and wouldn't be best pleased if they were to come up when I was indisposed. I had another go at the lock, prising at it until my fingers were sore. Tools. I have a bag of tools and selected a sturdy pair of pliers to give me some leverage but all I ended up with was the head of the key when it snapped off.
My other sister's ex-husband is a handyman, a school janitor. He also lives just around the corner and I thought I had his number in my phone. I don't. He's on Facebook but seldom uses it but I fired up the lappy on the off-chance he was lurking. No joy. I've situated the lappy by the window for the light. The guy in the flat upstairs came out with his dog, I had met him during the week and introduced myself. I decided I would sit in the window until he came back from walking the dog, feed what was left of the key through the window to him along with the pliers and see if he could free me since the key was that much easier to turn from the outside. It's not his dog, it belongs to his girlfriend, and apparently he spends most of his time at her house. Two hours later I called my sister, the one who told me about the furniture, and explained my situation. I then relayed my lottery numbers to her so I wouldn't miss out.
I set about emptying boxes, amazed at what one person can amass in ten years. When I moved back to Scotland from England everything I owned fitted into the car, with plenty of room for me. I had been at it for an hour when the buzzer went. Puzzled, I answered the intercom to find my sister outside; she had brought her own pliers. I passed the key through the window and tasted freedom some two minutes later.
I put my own lotteries on, I also did an each way treble at Wolverhampton, the evening meeting. Two winners and a second when I checked it later, good prices, and I didn't have one number on the lottery. I made forty odd quid on the deal.
I spent the Sunday cleaning the old flat. It almost felt as if I'd lost a day somewhere. I'm philosophical enough to put the whole experience down to teething problems, but shudder to think what else might have gone wrong if I'd flitted on the Saturday. Still, I'm more than happy not having to struggle up and down those stairs every day.
I made the move for health reasons, finding the two flights of stairs too much of a strain on my old legs; especially after a few beers or having to hump a couple of bags of shopping.
I dropped on the ground floor flat by sheer chance, having popped in to the factor's office to enquire about what notice I would need to give. The young lady told me she had a ground floor flat available and offered to let me see it there and then. I knew before I entered that I wouldn't be taking the place but the conversation turned to where she was showing another ground floor flat later in the day. It's roughly a hundred yards from the attic flat so I had a quick nosy when I got home. I gave her an hour to show it to the prospective client then called her up at the office. The flat was still available so I arranged for her to come back out and let me have a look inside.
The minute I stepped through the door I knew I was home, that's how it felt, the spacious kitchen being the stand-out selling point.
Since I was moving 'in-house' with the same factor, so to speak, I was then able to move things along apace, giving two weeks’ notice instead of the required four and, rather cheekily, getting a hold of the keys so I could move stuff in bit by bit at my leisure.
The attic flat was part furnished but the new flat was bare. We had buried my old aunty just the week before, she was well into her nineties, and my sister, who seldom calls, rang me up out of the blue to ask could I use any of Patsy's furniture. Fortuitous or what? I hopped a bus and got myself up there quick smart, and scored a three piece suite, a washing machine, fridge freezer, a single bed for the spare room (the new flat has two bedrooms), two drop-leaf tables, chairs, lamps, a dining set, a telly and several other household items. My cousins were happy the stuff was being put to good use and so was I.
I arranged it with the owners of the attic flat to leave my washing machine and take my bed instead. There had been a double bed when I moved in but I changed it for a three-quarter to give me a bit more room.
It was Cheltenham week. A few of us gather in the pub to watch the racing and enjoy the free buffet supplied. I had been packing boxes saved for me by the girl in the corner shop to where everything was almost ready to be moved. I got a man and a van out of the local paper to shift the stuff from Patsy's and James the Tree did a couple of runs in his car with the boxes. All that was left in the attic by the Friday, Gold Cup day, was cleaning stuff and my bed. James the Tree's mate came round with his van and he and I shifted the bed, easy peasy, I was all but moved in although not officially until the Monday.
I had a good day in the pub then visited another couple of pubs closer to home. There are two sturdy locks on the new flat door so I let myself in and locked both of them behind me. I was hungry but one look at the kitchen with boxes strewn everywhere and I knew I wouldn't be cooking. There's a good Chinese not fifty yards away so I unlocked the bottom of the two locks, but had something of a struggle with the top one, finally getting it open after five minutes or so. I chose beef curry, fried rice and prawn crackers with the certain knowledge I wouldn't eat all of it, at the same time realising what was left would do for breakfast. Again I turned both keys to lock myself in, ate my supper, listened to the radio for an hour then went to bed.
Saturday morning I was as bright as a button. I put what was left of my supper in the microwave, had a quick shower, breakfasted, took one look at the job in front of me and decided I would go for a paper. The top lock proved to be a problem again, more of a problem this time because it wasn't for budging. I rang the factor and got an answering machine, they're closed on the weekends as it turns out, and besides, I shouldn't really have been there. No matter. I had food and drink, beer even, and plenty to keep me occupied until Monday so I resigned myself to being imprisoned for the duration. An hour later it dawned on me that I hadn't done the lottery. I do the same numbers every week and wouldn't be best pleased if they were to come up when I was indisposed. I had another go at the lock, prising at it until my fingers were sore. Tools. I have a bag of tools and selected a sturdy pair of pliers to give me some leverage but all I ended up with was the head of the key when it snapped off.
My other sister's ex-husband is a handyman, a school janitor. He also lives just around the corner and I thought I had his number in my phone. I don't. He's on Facebook but seldom uses it but I fired up the lappy on the off-chance he was lurking. No joy. I've situated the lappy by the window for the light. The guy in the flat upstairs came out with his dog, I had met him during the week and introduced myself. I decided I would sit in the window until he came back from walking the dog, feed what was left of the key through the window to him along with the pliers and see if he could free me since the key was that much easier to turn from the outside. It's not his dog, it belongs to his girlfriend, and apparently he spends most of his time at her house. Two hours later I called my sister, the one who told me about the furniture, and explained my situation. I then relayed my lottery numbers to her so I wouldn't miss out.
I set about emptying boxes, amazed at what one person can amass in ten years. When I moved back to Scotland from England everything I owned fitted into the car, with plenty of room for me. I had been at it for an hour when the buzzer went. Puzzled, I answered the intercom to find my sister outside; she had brought her own pliers. I passed the key through the window and tasted freedom some two minutes later.
I put my own lotteries on, I also did an each way treble at Wolverhampton, the evening meeting. Two winners and a second when I checked it later, good prices, and I didn't have one number on the lottery. I made forty odd quid on the deal.
I spent the Sunday cleaning the old flat. It almost felt as if I'd lost a day somewhere. I'm philosophical enough to put the whole experience down to teething problems, but shudder to think what else might have gone wrong if I'd flitted on the Saturday. Still, I'm more than happy not having to struggle up and down those stairs every day.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.