"Its the going rate, mate" explained the uniformed man, in between excavations of his left nostril, "Nothing I can do - you could try someone else if you like..."
Of course I couldn't. He knew as well as I that his was the sole local removals company able to move my gear from little flat to another one, just across the street, on the date I needed.
I bit the inside of my lip and drew blood as I wrote a cheque. He peered over my shoulder: "Boxes is extra, mate"
"You're going to charge me for the use of these cardboard boxes?"
"'Course I am," he said, "Specialised cardboard is that. Expensive to replace if you damages 'em"
We both looked at the boxes. The cheerful logo proclaiming their previous existance as shipping containers for bananas at the local supermarket beamed back.
I didn't comment. I handed the cheque over and bade him farewell.
The next hour was spent packing as much heavy stuff as I could find into a single box so that I might enjoy the sound of the disks in his back popping when he tries to pick it up next week.
