The day we moved our leader to tears

Antiques Roadshow exhibits round endless stairwells. Not for me.

Not for me particularly was long distance removal van driving with the

added bonus of negotiating the dodgem circuit that is London's North

Circular on a Bank Holiday. But for a friend in need...

If, as my granny used to say, a friend in need is a bloody pest, what

price a boss in need? Not boss, exactly. I called him that one day and

he gave me a lecture on staff relations in the socially-aware-as-billy-o

Eighties.

Company Administator was his preferred title, a title which didn't

prevent him acting the boss when it suited. We settled on 'our leader.'

During one seniority tantrum, our leader demanded that tea be made for

him. And lo,tea was made -- but not for him. Junior staff can be so

childish, we were told. We agreed and past the chocolate digestives

around among ourselves.

''Right,'' fumed our leader. ''I'm going to make my own tea, and when

I get back I expect to find a chocolate digestive on my desk.'' He did.

It had a Mr Sad face drawn with Tippex, a decoration our leader

carefully scraped off with a paper clip bent for the task before

nibbling the biscuit.

Such behaviour was typical of a chap for whom the saying ''the pedants

are revolting'' was surely coined, the chap whose political correctness

inspired us to talk of Personchester and Peoplesfield.

Why, then, was I assisting with his removal from London to Nottingham?

Firstly, to make sure he went. And secondly, he'd hired a big self-drive

truck -- so big he was afraid to self-drive it, but not, as I alas

discovered on my arrival for removal duty, so big that it could

accomodate all the trappings of career-long acquisitiveness.

Phone calls were made, sums were done. The truck stayed -- on a

two-day hire. Loaded up (having used sufficient figurative cotton wool

to construct a life-sized overcast sky), we set off. For Nottingham -- a

pleasant enough place but with an inner ring road which wasn't designed

with fuel economy in mind. Our leader's new temporary abode certainly

offered a splendid view of the city, being on the fourteenth floor of a

block of flats above a city centre shopping mall.

How do we transfer the contents of the very big truck to the

fourteenth floor flat? I worried needlessly. With commendable foresight,

our leader had arranged access to the underground loading bay and a key

for the handily-situated service lift. A few loads and it was all over

bar the unpacking of tea chests. We locked up and left for London.

Next day we returned with the balance of his worldly goods to find

that the commendable foresight had let him down. So did his memory.

No access to the underground loading bay had been arranged. And

because we'd had to turn back and confirm that the loo roll holder

hadn't been left in situ, we were too late to see, let alone sweet, talk

the caretaker. Plus, with admirable public spiritedness, our leader had

handed back the service lift key the day before.

The shopping mall was open, but the nearest on-street parking was a

good hundred yards away. We recce'd the lift situation and discovered

the world and her husband arriving home from work. The lift down to the

car park was free. We took it. It opened onto the realisation that the

nearest passenger lift to the flats was 200 yards away.

In relays we humped tea chests, chairs and cheese plants over the

forecourt. Across the shopping mall foyer. Stopped small boys climbing

the cheese plants. Into the lift, down, out again. Across the car park.

Into the lift. Up. Along the full length of the fourteenth floor. Home

sweet home.

Once, this was a bit of a laugh. A dozen times, with interruptions

from fed and watered and out again for the evening Nottinghamers

pinching the lift, and our leader was close to tears.

When we'd said our goodbyes and all the bests, I sniggered all the way

back to the van hire depot, sure in the knowledge that my long distance

DIY removal days were over. For good.

Well, for a couple of months . . . till some clown offered me a job

back in Scotland.