Rules of Engagement

I went to our storage unit this week - a necessity given we brought Canada with us in the move here and there isn't enough room in the flat for it - to get my 'winter wardrobe'.
 
With the Silverback in Philly again, it was up to me to manage the manoeuvre with military precision as I was also taking The Lish and she has a boredom threshold of an L.A celebrity's kid.  So the night before, I made sure to charge up her portable DVD and packed four of her favourite films (are you getting the enormity of the operation?) 

Feeling very much like I do the night before an early flight, I tossed and turned in bed and woke up feeling like a pig had made itself at home in my head.  Having ripped the second largest piece of luggage out of the bottom of the wardrobe - an operation that resembled lambing season in New Zealand - we set off on the one and a half hour journey to East Finchley.  One long-assed tube ride later, we made it to bus stop A on the High Road for the last leg of the journey that would take us up to North Finchley.  A bunch of stops later - I was measuring the distance by eye (bit like my cooking), we made it to C.I.A headquarters. 

I had memorised the two sets of codes that would get us into the building and my locker.  Feeling like Jason Bourne punching in the number of his Swiss bank account I managed not to make any mistakes that would cause bars to fall from the ceiling and trap us like ferrets in a mink farm.  I was feeling proud as Punch (if only I were as good looking at that time in the morning).  I'd even managed to zone out the sound of The Lish whinging about how bored she was.  We hadn't even STARTED yet.

I approached the locker with dread.  The inside is like the storage area of an IKEA store without the labelling.  I had to find boots and coats in all of that to last me all winter (or until we buy a house - which may be soon - saw some cracking flats yesterday, but that's for another time).

Opening the door to the sound of an air vacuum sucking oxygen in from the outside and Lishy still whining - I decided to take out my first weapon of mass destruction - the DVD player - guaranteed to silence the witteriest of fish wives, only to find I'd left it charging at home.  I sank to my knees in prostrated frustration.  Instead I pulled out a packet of Wotsits and hoped it would take her an hour to eat.  Wishful thinking.

If having to unstack boxes that weighed as much as I did the day before going into labour wasn't enough, the lights in this place are on a timer, which required me to run up and down the corridors every 20 minutes in order to get the sods to turn on again (motion detector system).  Not fun at the best of times, less if you are stuck between a book shelf and a bedstead with your hands stuffed into the lurky depths of an unlabelled box.  Suffice to say, I don't plan on going back until it's actually time to move the boxes into a permanent home.

After that little escapade, I looked a right nonce pulling an overstuffed suitcase to bus stop A for the return journey home. I could have taken a cab, but that would have defeated the point since the whole exercise was to save money by not re-buying clothes and boots I already owned, I figured I'd stay true to that sentiment and rough it on public transport. Ridiculous really, I SO deserved a cab home.

After my tour of duty up in North London, I pretty much slept-walked through the rest of the week. Sorry about that. I did however try out the red velvet cupcake recipe I was blithering about in the last blogpost, to my credit, as it involved buying ingredients I've never even seen in real life, like food colouring, vanilla essence and butter (I'm a margarine girl).  And look! - but I preface the image below with the following caveat: I don't cook.

So there you have it. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm told however that taste-wise - it's the business. Story of my life. Nice legs shame about the face.