This is, in fact, the last hurrah of broadband at the old flat, since they're meant to be turning it off tomorrow. No broadband at the new flat until Friday - yikes! It'll be a bit of a giveaway if I blog again between now and then that I'm sneaking it in at the office...
1. Moving is like metamorphosis. We always seem to leave some part of our worldly presence behind us, and no, I'm not talking about poetic, metaphysical, slightly pretentious stuff here, I'm talking about genuine physical detritus. It does feel a bit like shedding a skin or a cocoon to leave some familiar thing behind in a move. I'm still not 100% certain that we left anything behind in the first Bristol flat, but without a stepladder that day we could easily have missed something in the attic.
The second flat saw a lengthy period of consolidation, i.e. More Stuff, so in the mad panic of trying to get everything out and clean that flat before the estate agent's office closed we left quite a few things behind (in our generosity) for the benefit of future tenants, not least Jo's old stereo. But it was a very old stereo, and we have a nicer one now - that's my excuse. It was one of those items that just wouldn't fit into the car, which at 5.30pm that day was stuffed like an automotive Mr Creosote.
By then we'd also gained three bookcases, including a Very Big Bookcase. Alas, the Very Big Bookcase has fallen in this move - mould claimed the back panel somehow, possibly during the last move, and was starting to take one of the side planks. Amazingly lucky for us that it a) hadn't broken through to the books, and b) hadn't crossed to the wall behind. So with none of the due ceremony, the Very Big Bookcase was jumped on by me until broken into manageable lengths, and thrown onto the tip. Eh well. Very Big Bookcases are all well and good, but a bugger to move between flats in a small car. This weekend therefore also saw a visit to...
2. Ikea. Dante's Mall. I don't think I've ever seen a plain, simple catalogue for Ikea - do they exist? As I wander around the seventh circle of show "rooms", I find myself jotting down not only the warehouse references for the bookcases I see, but brief field notes too, so that if something similar should catch my eye later on I won't have to go all the way back again to compare. It doesn't work, of course.
(It's turning into a bit of a guilty pleasure, though. The obvious good reason for using Ikea is that you, muggins, take the flat-packed goodies away yourself, whereas with Argos et al you have to agree to be indoors all day when they claim they'll deliver your big, heavy bookcase. Will they, my arse. The less obvious, less good reason is that now I've done it more than once, it's becoming more familiar - I'm starting to build a rapport with the building. The first visit was complete sensory overload, and I think I spent ten minutes just staring at a twenty-foot-high wall with sofas bolted onto it all the way up, muttering to myself. Today was a much more clinical affair.)
And then, of course, "Bargain Corner". The torture here being that all the discounted items (or what Ikea laughingly call "discounted") are already built, so unless you're an opportunist with a van already waiting in the car park, I don't imagine they'll be of much use to you. I still wander by to laugh at the prices. Ha, paid that for my new bookcase. Wait a minute - is my bookcase rubbish, or was that bookcase overpriced...?
(Fresh horror creeping in now as I realise I'm a fanzine writer blogging about Ikea. Oh, dammit. The virus is catching.)
3. Oops, I did it again, I got up at six, to watch Doctor Who, etc etc. This would have been the antepenultimate hurrah of broadband at the old flat. This week's obscenely early viewing was another Pertwee that I hadn't seen before but wanted to, and this time it wasn't one that was already available for hire on DVD. It was...
The Mind of Evil. Very good - I'd give that a High Good, in fact, just on the border of the DVD wishlist. Slightly marred by the nonsensical ending, in which the threat of a nuclear-powered missile with a nerve gas warhead is neutralised by... blowing it up. Plus the very, very ending - "Oh, Doctor? Phone call for you. It's the Master. He says, 'Ha ha ha'." All in all, though, good solid fare.
(And hey, the Master does listen to King Crimson! Sadly, one of the dull and indistinguishable bits from their second or third album (I think), neither of which I have any more on account of them being dull and indistinguishable. I was really hoping for "Easy Money", perhaps while the Master cruised along in his limo and chomped a fat cigar, but the story was two years too early for that one.)
On balance, though, I'm not sure any TV show really deserves to get me out of bed at the weekend as early as 6am - certainly not a weekend as busy as this one - so I may not oops, do it again. But we'll see.
4. Primeval. Well, that wasn't too bad, despite the early reports. Admittedly I was shredding old bank statements during most of the first half, and so may have missed vital gaffes, but it didn't look at all bad. Fairly transparently a knock-off of Torchwood, even down to the directing (as The Lovely Jo was quick to point out), but without endless gratuitous shootin' 'n' shaggin' this felt better than Torchwood. In fact, what with this and Dancing on Ice we spent most of Saturday evening watching ITV. Shocker. That must be the first time that's happened. I think we know which channel we'll be watching when the Who starts up again, though.