Lockdown in Paris : Day Fifty
Tuesday 5th May
What can I possibly tell you about today beyond this : I have a fridge.
Nothing else that has happened today in this tiny box I call home is worthy of note. Nothing. Serious I really mean it - nothing whatsoever. We’re lucky the fridge arrived or this blog post would have read “I watched Netflix, first in French, then as I got lazier, in English.”
Even with the fridge involved it’s a miracle I’m writing this little missive at all, given the likelihood of me toppling backwards down five flights of stairs trying to lug the thing up to the flat. The delivery man, in the back of his van, cheerfully threw people’s boxes around with an abandon that made me wince on impact, before he located mine and plonked it down on that raised platform trucks have. Is it just you? He asked from on high, looking at me dubiously while I looked at the box dubiously. I made a mental note of this question, so that I could repeat it later to Yorkshire-Laur, when I would be able to yell what I was not able to yell at the delivery man. YES IT’S JUST ME, IT’S ALWAYS JUST ME, ME MYSELF AND ME AND I AND ME, BY MYSELF THANKS SO MUCH FOR ASKING. Instead I just said, “It’s fine. I can do it.”
I had no choice but to do it. The damn thing had to be wrangled up into the flat somehow. Luckily I’m quite used to lifting things at which my mother would yell, “DON’T! That’s far too heavy!” But small oak tables do not make their own way from other people’s basements into one’s flat, and nor do yellow chairs (to be fair I didn’t carry that, Yorkshire-Laur and Scottish-Sar split the flights between them with it resting seat-down on their heads, because they are heroes). So there I was with a fridge in a box, and five flights of stairs between me and cold milk.
First problem was, my fingers could only just reach around the edges of the thing, making for a very awkward box-hugging situation that was unsustainable beyond four paces. Having no choice but to give it a go, I shooshed the thing off the platform of the truck and staggered backwards, at which point the flawed physics of the task quickly became apparent. I managed to half-stumble, half-fall through the main gate as the truck drove off, leaving chivalry to choke to death on its exhaust fumes. I tried to look confident until the gate closed, keen to fool that imaginary audience we all carry with us. Once inside, I immediately put the box down (read: half dropped it). I gave the box my very best thoughtful expression. Then I dragged it towards the bins.
Once I got my breath back I took a gamble and ripped it open. Luckily, there was a slightly smaller box inside. This was pretty lucky because I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I’d ended up with a box I couldn’t physically carry with a fridge in it that was ready to fall out at any moment because I had ripped open the box. I had a brief vision of this scenario ending with me opening the fridge and putting it on my head for the journey. It could’ve worked. I wouldn’t have been able to see anything, but I’ve been climbing these stairs for five years - how hard could it be from inside an appliance?
Luckily for me, the fridge, and my continued existence on this earth, I was able to lift out the smaller box. All the while I was thinking I’m going to get this thing up there and plug it in and it isn’t going to work, either because that delivery man threw it across the van five times before it got here, or because I’m going to break it on the way up. I wrestled the bigger box into the bin.
I won’t be sure until I wake up tomorrow morning just how many muscles I’ve pulled, but I can already sense it’s a lot. But muscles schmuscles, who needs ‘em? The fridge is here and - fittingly enough - sitting on top of the heavier-than-it-looks oak table, buzzing merrily away. Ok so I’ve nothing to put in it (I couldn’t quite bear the thought of the stairs again), but rest assured, tomorrow will find me in the refrigerator aisle singing Oh What a Beautiful Morning to the staff and throwing cheese wheels into the air. If I can move.