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breaking out the travel icon
Jul. 11th, 2004 01:54 pmToday, as you all know, is Sunday.
Friday, the movers came to my new apartment. The city is digging up the street outside, so it was a bit of a tight fit with the moving van. Also, movers are such wimps. So I live on the third floor and there isn't an elevator--I only have two pieces of furniture, and half my books went straight into my car. And yet the movers kept moaning and whining about what a pain this move was.
(As an aside, as I was describing my apartment to one of my new colleagues--the other woman, who bears a striking resemblance to Kay Howard*--commented, in her perfect Kay voice, "Oh, H-- Street. That's where all the hookers used to hang out." But the area has gentrified, as waterfront tends to.)
I appear to be unlucky with doors. The movers managed to break the front door of the building (luckily, the outer door, not the one that locks), and this morning when I tried to get out of my apartment I discovered that the doorknob no longer was connected to the latch. I had to break myself out with a credit card. I've taped the door, but left a screwdriver just outside in case I had to break in again.
Yesterday I did the actual "moving into the apartment." It was a bit awkward, and I don't have various things that one rather needs. A coffee-maker (because I am picky.) Curtains on the bathroom windows (and as I look out into a big courtyard, this is really dreadful.) A stereo (the movers lost it, somewhere between Portland and Halifax.) Today I came into the office to unpack a few boxes of books (sadly, there are still another four back at the apartment.) Tomorrow, I'm going home to Oxford for six weeks. I may not be around much on the internet for that time, due to the evils of BT.
*One of my Chicago professors reminded me strongly of John Munch, which made meeting with him rather difficult. I couldn't shake the feeling that his incisive comments on my work were really designed to get me to 'fess up to murder.
ETA: Oh, and I found a good used bookstore, where I picked up two Reginald Hill mysteries I hadn't read before. Sadly, the editions refer to them as Dalziel/Pascoe novels, which leads my mind someplace it would rather not be. And then, the biggest score--a copy of Rosemary Harris, The Bright and Morning Star. Excellent.
Friday, the movers came to my new apartment. The city is digging up the street outside, so it was a bit of a tight fit with the moving van. Also, movers are such wimps. So I live on the third floor and there isn't an elevator--I only have two pieces of furniture, and half my books went straight into my car. And yet the movers kept moaning and whining about what a pain this move was.
(As an aside, as I was describing my apartment to one of my new colleagues--the other woman, who bears a striking resemblance to Kay Howard*--commented, in her perfect Kay voice, "Oh, H-- Street. That's where all the hookers used to hang out." But the area has gentrified, as waterfront tends to.)
I appear to be unlucky with doors. The movers managed to break the front door of the building (luckily, the outer door, not the one that locks), and this morning when I tried to get out of my apartment I discovered that the doorknob no longer was connected to the latch. I had to break myself out with a credit card. I've taped the door, but left a screwdriver just outside in case I had to break in again.
Yesterday I did the actual "moving into the apartment." It was a bit awkward, and I don't have various things that one rather needs. A coffee-maker (because I am picky.) Curtains on the bathroom windows (and as I look out into a big courtyard, this is really dreadful.) A stereo (the movers lost it, somewhere between Portland and Halifax.) Today I came into the office to unpack a few boxes of books (sadly, there are still another four back at the apartment.) Tomorrow, I'm going home to Oxford for six weeks. I may not be around much on the internet for that time, due to the evils of BT.
*One of my Chicago professors reminded me strongly of John Munch, which made meeting with him rather difficult. I couldn't shake the feeling that his incisive comments on my work were really designed to get me to 'fess up to murder.
ETA: Oh, and I found a good used bookstore, where I picked up two Reginald Hill mysteries I hadn't read before. Sadly, the editions refer to them as Dalziel/Pascoe novels, which leads my mind someplace it would rather not be. And then, the biggest score--a copy of Rosemary Harris, The Bright and Morning Star. Excellent.
