I needed some high chairs in my kitchen mostly because boyfriend said he would rather eat standing than in bed (I love eating in bed, I can live without chairs as far as I am concerned).
I looked up the offer and I decided for a cheap pair at Argos. Only £25 and that’s awesome since I am not sure what I will do after my six months contract expires. I mean, I might be able to afford a one bedroom, right? Which will make my bar stools quite useless. I didn’t even care they didn’t match my kitchen at all.
Because I had some issues with how Argos makes the home deliveries, I decided to go buy them in person. By myself. I have a shop nearby so I thought I should be fine.
I went to the shop, I paid and while waiting to pick up my order I saw a box behind the shop assistant. It was almost my size and looked quite heavy. I started praying: please dear gods, let this box not be mine, pretty please, pretty pretty please. But while I was calling to the gods, the shop assistant took my receipt, looked at it, turned around, grabbed the very tall box and gave it to me.
Bloody hell, I said to myself (and something far worst in Romanian). I managed to take the box out of the shop in like five minutes, mostly by dragging it. There was a bus stop 30 seconds away. I got there in what seemed forever (ten minutes).
The bus came, I dragged the box inside and I was okay for the next three stops. Then I got off the bus. I was five minutes away from home, only five minutes. I could see my street from where I was standing. I looked at the box. Tall up to my shoulders, as wide as me or a bit more, and ten kilos heavy. All I had to do was get to the zebra, cross the road, cross the tiny patch of the park, cross another road, walk one minute up to my building. It seemed so simple.
But it wasn’t. I dragged the box to the zebra. I waited for the green colour. I dragged the box across the road, mostly on the red colour. Green didn’t wait for me. The drivers did, though. I must have put on quite a show. Green coat, black tights, short dress and a handbag, of course. Plus a carrier bag with a few things I had shopped before buying the chairs: some glasses and candles. And envelopes. A plant pot. But no plant, thank god. Oh, I also had nice shoes on, by the way.
Anyway, back to the story. Once I was on the other side of the road, I stopped. My arms were hurting. I was heavily swearing in Romanian like I didn’t know I could swear. I had to find a solution because dragging was not an option anymore. And I did. I dropped my load on the pavement, knelt by the box and tore it open with my bare hands. I took out the chairs and ripped the plastic off. I gathered my belongings, left the box there (I am really really really sorry for littering but it was a life and death situation), I grabbed the chairs and crossed the park to get home.
And I finally did. It took me almost half an hour to get from the bus stop to my flat! I unfolded the chairs and guess what? Too high! And I cannot return them because, yes, I left the box on the pavement.
I didn’t even bother to do some measurements, I figured my eyes are good enough. Well, they aren’t. And I feel like slapping the cheap me so bad, whenever I look at my kitchen.
A pair of brown wood chairs is the only thing that could cheer me up right now and I might go ahead and get them, in order to forgive myself for being such an idiot. I will sell these ones on Gumtree, if the buyer is willing to do the pick up. I will never ever ever carry furniture on the street again.
P.S. For those of you who wonder, yes, I was offered a hand by some strangers but I refused them for various reasons, mostly because I didn’t feel comfortable to let strangers know where I live. A very handsome guy insisted in helping me and I almost let him but I felt sorry for the Burberry coat he was wearing. Aren’t I nice!