I’d left my worldly possessions with my new landlady. It was a pretty big move; I was also changing jobs and cities. I’d finished my contract on the Friday, and schlepped my belongings the 170 miles to my new home the same day. There wasn’t time to unpack, only to unload the car before collapsing into bed. The next morning, an early flight for a quick holiday inbetween jobs.
When I returned home, my new landlady greeted me. She looked particularly pleased with herself: “I saw you hadn’t had time to sort through your things, so I thought I’d make you feel at home!”
She’d been through my boxes—through every single thing I owned—and taken it upon herself to unpack my belongings.
Every single thing I owned.
It’s one thing when someone takes it upon themselves to unbox your CDs and books and pop them on a shelf for you.
It’s another thing entirely when someone you’ve only met once previously has gone through your knickers, your bras and even your tampons, and arranged them for you.
She was so thrilled, with what she saw as a really kind act, that I couldn’t bear to tell her I was actually pretty upset by the whole thing.
I wound up moving out a week later, but that was for completely different reasons. I’ll tell you why another time.