I eat breakfast at my newly-reclaimed place by the window – hurrah, a place to eat and drink coffee and read. Today I start Thinks… by David Lodge.
I take a trip to IKEA to get a cabinet for the bathroom. I hope initially to slip in the back way and get what I want before the masses work their way through, but that’s impossible. I’m close to screaming – it’s a seething throng of humanity in there. I’ve been through the catalogue marking things but end up just getting more of the same shelving I got before, so I needn’t have bothered moving stuff to the living room. Still, it gave me an opportunity to hoover the bathroom floor under the shelves (which really needed doing) and I’m now one glass-doored cabinet up on the deal. If deal it be.
Much of the rest of the day is spent shifting stuff and putting rubbish into plastic bags. When I put these outside (away from the restaurant), someone from the rail yard gives me a dirty look. I do have to throw things away, you know. Pah.
Despite a whole weekend of tidying and the introduction of a lot of storage, the flat is more messy than ever.
I move the shelving unit from the bathroom to the living room where it forms an impressive wall behind the sofa and makes the kitchen area cosy (good) and dark (less good). All in the room is now chaos.
I watch CSI: Miami, Law and Order and 24, and notice how much american TV is propaganda. That is to say, there are various assumptions about the world (the division between “heroes” and “villains”, for example, or the notion that one’s behaviour is an expression of one’s inner fibre). A striking trope is the way that an officer will have no evidence of any malefaction, but a striking “hunch”. He will follow the hunch. He will be right.
There’s a lot more than that, but if you want to hear about it you’ll probably need to commission me to write a cultural studies textbook or something.
More washing. Angela comes to collect the flier and we discuss various things surrounded by shameless detritus.
Continue working my way through the washing.
I get up early to prepare for the arrival of the washing machine men, who call to say that they will be there at just after 8:00 (that is to say, I’m the first or second on their route, which , living in central London, I ought to be used to by now but am not. D’oh!). They cart the new one in (with only a little local difficulty) and the old one out (although it resists, somewhat). I watch my venerable old washing machine being loaded onto the truck, en route for the knacker’s yard with barely a flicker of an emotion. I am a hard old bastard. Grr.
The next thing is to plumb it in and test it, although I don’t, as yet, install it in the space under the work surface, so it’s standing in the middle of the kitchen looking impressive and new. It does work, but I have to wait for it to finish and this delays my arrival at Walker somewhat.
In the evening, the Harris boys drop round for a visit before Pete jets off back to climes exotic.
I get to come home from Walker’s for a bit due to Network Strangeness, but am able to use the time to catch up on things.
The evening is spent preparing for the arrival of the washing machine tomorrow, largely piling everything from one side of the flat on the other side, so that they have a clear runway to get it all through.
Ben helps me move stuff around in readiness for the delivery of the washing machine. CD shelves are removed from the wall and stacked on the floor by the guitars. Space is also cleared on the table, mysteriously.
Afterwards I buy Ben a late dinner from Taz on The Cut, vegetarian mezes and bits and pieces. As nice as people have been telling me it is.