Friday, 12 April 2013

Removal Companies




Three surveyors from three different removal companies came round the house today to see what we have lying around. A lot as it turns out. Especially on the floors.

Not only was the house incredibly messy, it was also quite dusty. Of course I decided to go for a run this morning, rather than spending my precious time cleaning. So that when the first guy showed up I was still in my sweaty running outfit, looking rather pink.
To his credit he kept a straight face as he plonked his folder down amidst the remnants of our hasty breakfast. He then lulled me into a false sense of security by not opening a single cupboard, or drawer, contenting himself instead by asking me what was in it. 'Just clothes', I lied. 'Books', was another one that I used frequently, routinely overlooking the tons of dried out glue sticks, mouldy clay, unsorted papers, baby photo's of the children still waiting to be glued into a book and half finished jigsaws that I knew where lurking inside.
He almost go a heart attack in our cellar, which is so full you cannot walk into it anymore. 'Our camping gear and skis', I waved. Oh and of course the brand new washing machine from Italy that we never even unpacked in Switzerland, a few bikes, a micro wave and about three dozen of plastic boxes containing God knows what.
As soon as the second surveyor sets food inside my house, he asks permission to have a look in every closet and miscellaneous drawer in sight. Oh dear. Hopefully he is not married to an impeccable house wife. Following his gaze, I start noticing the dirty underwear contricting the entrance to my daughter's bedroom. Her 'floordrobe', as we have come to call her room, is strewn with every item of clothing she possesses.
While surveyor number two came in telling me W's company pays for the move of a pretty large container, ten minutes into his visit he starts to look worried. It might just about fit. But then again, it might not.
I know we you should sift through our belonging and start throwing things away. But I really don't want to do that in Switzerland, the toughest country in the world when it comes to chucking stuff. You can not just drive to the tip and fill up the containers placed there for your convenience. You really can only put things on your driveway with a sign that says: 'it is free, pleace take it', which of course noone ever does. Or you can drive to big recycling plant where they weigh your car before you enter and again after you leave to charge you an astronomical amount of money for your worthless things. So the disposing of old beds, bicycles, sun loungers, plastic slides and ugly garden furniture we would do in the Netherlands, we decided a while ago. May be not such a good idea.
I seize the opportunity for a quick shower between guy number two and guy number three. Only to have the latter call me to say that he is a bit early and should he wait. The second I tell him it is ok if he comes a bit early, he presses the doorbell. Only in Switzerland they telephone you from your own front door.
I let him in, hair still dripping, with bare feet. At least I am dressed. He looks around for a good five minutes before he worriedly asks me wether or not I plan to empty the thirty flower pots, scattered around the garden. I suppose so. He also wants to know if we really plan on moving a pile of old mattresses. Yes of course, it is the children's most prized possession.
He is catching me off guard when he asks me wether or not we have much alcohol in the house, because I tell him no. I know it is always tricky to bring wine and spirits when on the move. Custom officers do not seem to like it much.
Ah well. At least W. and I can be permanently drunk when we start sifting through our stuff this summer.