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To The Rescue

Moving the contents of your apartment down three flights of stairs one armload at a time is bloody boring, to say the least. Plus I hate walking down stairs when carrying things, I freak out when I can't see my feet. But I found a good way to stay awake and/or not fall down head over turkey: assign stupid personas and scenarios to each load. BOX OF WINE GLASSES –  A family of refugees who I was smuggling over the border. Persecuted in their homeland for not being genuine crystal, they paid me $1000 to put them on a boat bound for the promised land. The faint clink clink as I ran down the stairs was their pitiful cries for oxygen. BIG FAT ARMCHAIR WITH LURID GREEN AND PINK STRIPES –  A rather portly skank at a nightclub. She'd been in a brawl with some fellow skanks, and I was the bouncer. I slung her over my shoulder and lumbered down the stairs to throw her out on the street. She kicked and screamed the whole way and threatened to sic her boyfriend Leroy onto me. SUITCASE STUFFED WITH COOKBOOKS –  I'd murdered my wife, chopped her into steaks and now planned to put her remains on a train bound for the countryside… unaware that Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly were watching me from a window across the courtyard. ASSORTED BED LINEN –  I was sneaking down to the local boarding school, where I would knot the sheets together to form a makeshift ladder so I could help a number of girls named Trixie or Imogen escape out the dormitory window and far from the clutches of their evil Headmistress.

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About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m an author, copywriter and old school blogger. I love telling stories about life and helping my clients to tell theirs. Find out more about me and how we can work together.


24 thoughts on “To The Rescue

  1. ooooh I freak when I can’t see my feet when walking down stairs too! My head is always filled with images of tripping, tumbling, and snapping (usually my neck). It especially freaks me out when I know that no one is around to find my broken body and I could be lying there for days!

    I do have an over-active imagination!

    I will however try this little game of yours in the future and see if it helps 😛

  2. Damn. I really missed out by not applying this to my recent move. Perhaps I would’ve been better disposed towards shifting truckloads of stuff if I’d referred to it as something other than “you shithouse bastard!”?

    Dang. But even in the depth of moving funk, I managed to pull off the Staying Alive strut as I carried my guitar case into the new home…

  3. It could be the fact that I’m kiblitzed [sic] out of my gourd right now, but I read the last paragraph as “ASSORTED BIN LADEN.” Are you either with us or against us, Shauny?

    And while I’m very impressed at the solutions you’ve posed, I’m still perplexed by how Luke can possibly replace cans of paint (and two, two slices of pizza, one on top of the other) with a guitar. There is no way one could strut that way with even a Jaguar without the fretboard colliding into some hapless old lady’s head, resulting in spectacular fountains of blood spurting into the air Sam Peckinpah style, a lawsuit (California style) and several Hail Marys (followed, of course, by the Immaculate Reception after halftime).

    And fall down head over turkey? Is this an Aussie colloquialsm that I’m unfamiliar with? The only thing I can picture is in that department is Mr. Bean.

    Of course, I’ve always wanted to put my head insided a turkey, particularly if I was close to death. The way I see it, if one comes out from the womb between a pair of legs, one should return back into the womb, even if the allegorical cavity in question is separated by a measly pair of turkey limbs. Nothing like bookends to save the 65+ years or so.

  4. Lol -and I’ve seen your stairs, they are a force to be reckoned with.

    Moving sucks. I should have applied that tactic. Rather it was more like ‘more fucking stuff, can I go to bed now?’ 🙂

    Be glad to have you as a visitor on the Kendall Farm for Stray Plants.

  5. heheh. Daydreaming is the way to survive the boredom of any tedious chore. And yeah, it’s so disconcerting not to be able to see your feet when walking downstairs. Did you do that thing where you get to the bottom but it’s not the bottom? That always gives me a fright.

  6. I used to live in a Canberra apartment with killer stairs: fully external, tiled – and we moved in on a day of light rain.

    The only guy to go head over turkey was the fridge-delivery dude. Fortunately he was already just inside the flat and its (equally tiled, wet) doorway.

    The fridge did kinda fall on him though.

    (Less blood and injury than you’d think.)

  7. Moving is crap but I’m glad for you that you didn’t have to go through the trauma of a garage sale where hordes of strangers go picking through your stuff, your neighbours know you’re not just clearing out your place but clearing out of the country and they screw you down to peanuts for your last worldly possession, your beloved sells your favorite pair of shoes and jacket for a couple of bucks and some skank from down the street wants to take your treasured giant plastic orange Fudge bottle off your hands. And the worst thing is, at the end of the day, you’re still left with a lot of… um… crap. And its like self-replicating crap. There’s more of it than there was before.

    Some words of advice. Unless you have a Mary Poppins stylee suitcase, it really is true when they say pack everything you need, then take half of it out and give it away.

  8. Oh God. The other day I realized I’d moved a bottle of shampoo through 3 states and 5 apartments. I can’t think of a scenario for that bottle of shampoo. I suppose I think of it as ‘the velveteen rabbit.’ Unused, unloved, left in the closet. Yet, because I feel it’s devotion I move it from place to place?

  9. I vote you just stand at the top and throw it off..

    we live in an appartment block
    right at the top
    theres some killer stairs
    from the top of the appartment block
    every morning I walk to the balcony
    and throw big things off
    like glasses and chairs
    or whatever I don’t want to carry down the stairs

    okay, maybe my lyric changing skills need some work.

  10. From my last move …

    THE ROLL-UP DESK – My grandfather. All old-man smells; nooks and crannies; cryptic crosswords and long-kept snippets from the newspaper sticking out the drawers; faintly comical yet surprisingly useful.

    ASSORTED BOXES OF PAPERS – Classified documents from the Ambassador’s office during the evacuation of our embassy to a country wracked by civil war. Running upstairs to the roof to catch the final helicopter, a junior officer carrying three boxes will trip, spilling papers everywhere like doves loosed at an Olympics Opening Ceremony. The Charge D’Affaires will scream “leave them!” down the stairwell, and she will cry out of shame and fear as the chopper swings its way over the burning suburbs. She wanted a posting to Paris …

    SIX POTTED ROSES – The entire National Party representation in the House of Representatives. Required their own trip via ute. Returned to their electorate looking somewhat dishevilled. None would gain pre-selection for the next election.

    BOX CONTAINING PHOTOGRAPHY CHEMICALS – Virulent pathogens developed in Soviet laboratories during the 1950s. Containers decaying, marked with indecipherable scrawls in what appear to be at least three Slavic languages and Chinese. Soon to be traded on the blackmarket in Sudan for child slaves, and Euros laundered through Nauru.

  11. Kenny:

    Nice choice of lyrics! That’s what I was thinking the whole time that I was reading that post. You didn’t do that bad, either. I liked the stairs rhyme.

    Shauny:

    🙂 I want to quote that Chilli’s song: Love Roller Coaster. You give me a funny feeling in my tummy. But that sounds more dodgy than I mean it. He he.

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