My parents’ furniture has gone.
Packed neatly into a bashed up moving van, hired by our buyer out of the local rag,
“Sight unseen,” she assured us just in case we thought she was risking the life of our furniture. Over the phone she’d asked the driver, if he would drive to London?
“Oh yes Ma’am, I’ll go anywhere.”
She asked him if he had packing blankets? He’d answered with his own question,
“Would you like to come with me?”
“Yes please,” she said.
I’m glad she did, she was a severe overseer, nothing was going to damage her newly purchased, blonde, Ercol furniture.
My clever hubs managed, after weeks of re adjusting accounts and setting up an English paypal, to capture several flattering images of the twenty pieces of carefully turned wood for posting on Ebay.
The set sold in a matter of days to this lover of all things Ercol, her Dad had worked in the factory for 35 years, she knew a good buy when she saw one.
The packing blankets weren’t up to the Ercol factory standard. Neither was the mover.
As I watched the dining room table make its way onto the van I felt a twinge of nostalgia. My brother and I had sat at that very table every morning for breakfast and tormented the dog by kicking his basket located just in reach of our meddlesome feet.
Hubs helped with the loading.
Both the buyer and hubs declared the mover to be,
“A complete waste of time.”
I pointed out that he was the one with the van, noisy and clanky as it was. Our buyer wouldn’t have been able to complete her purchase without him.
Between her and my hubs the job was accomplished in an hour and she was set for the return journey,
“Don’t hit any bumps or go too fast,” she said to the driver who wore his trousers high up around his real waist. She eyed the roped in couches and tables.
“I wonder if we’ll even make it in once piece in this heap,” she observed dryly to me.
Although I would never have given the furniture house room it was my parents’ pride and joy. A whole set of matching chairs and tables. It says a lot when you’ve grown up with hand me downs and mismatched bits and bobs. It would not have been Mum and Dad’s house without the Ercol.
It is no longer their flat.
I am glad we didn’t sell it to dealers. Our buyer will cherish every stick and cushion, will stroke it often and appreciate the natural grain of the beech tree showing through the blonde finish. She is going to give it a home in her conservatory. It will be the fanciest garden room on the promenade.
Her home was Cliftonville, a mere 5 miles from Broadstairs, my parents’ place of retirement.
Their furniture was going back to the Isle of Thanet to live out its days in the sunny confines of her glassed-in room.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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