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Authors: Tony Hawks
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load.’
Ken then waited, his eyes imploring me to enquire further.
‘And how did it perform?’ I asked.
‘It was sluggish.’
Ken beamed broadly, pleased at having had the occasion to work this joke into a conversation. The opportunity probably didn’t come up that often.
‘I walked into that,’ I conceded. ‘Very good.’
Ken beamed all the more. I had a go at changing his cheerful demeanour.
‘I don’t suppose you could help me shift my grand piano?’ I asked.
‘Where to?’
‘Just from one room to another. Should be fairly straightforward, although we may have to remove the legs.’
Instead of this question puncturing his high spirits, Ken responded as jovially as ever.
‘No problem. Shall I pop over this afternoon?’
‘Yes, please.’
Well done, Ken. So far, he was following instructions to the letter from the text book How To Be the Perfect Neighbour .
To be fair, the job was no more complicated than I’d made out. Having changed my mind about which room I preferred to play the piano in, I now wanted it moved into our living room from the ‘adjacent studio/office’ (as it had been described in the estate agent’s particulars). I’d allowed one hour to complete the job before I would need to leave for a meeting with a local councillor about buses. I’d noticed that the ones that came in and out of our village were nearly always empty, and I wondered why. Later that afternoon I would have some answers.
I was well prepared for the job. I’d watched my piano being moved several times before by teams of two men, and I was pretty sure I could remember the procedure. Admittedly, Ken and I didn’t have a special grand piano removal trolley, but I had a plan to overcome that. The wooden floor was shiny and flat between the two rooms, so I figured we could drag the piano between them on cushions and sheets. All we needed to do was remove the three legs.
Ken arrived, beaming with enthusiasm, and we set about our task. Disappointingly, we went off-script almost immediately. Instead of engaging in piano removal, we found ourselves scratching our heads, Stan Laurel-style. We just couldn’t fathom how to remove the legs without the help of a third person. In the end, Ken went back to his house to fetch a car jack – but unfortunately for me, he didn’t do this until we’d already tipped up the piano and removed one of the legs. This meant that I had to take the weight of one corner of the piano until Ken made it back.
‘How are you getting on, darling?’ said Fran, as she popped her head in.
‘Oh, not so bad,’ I said. ‘Just waiting on Ken, who’s fetching something.’
‘Great. I’m just nipping out to yoga. See you later. Good luck.’
It seemed an awfully long time before Ken re-entered carrying the new equipment, but it may have been only a few minutes. As I looked at Ken readying the jack, I couldn’t see a place on the piano where it was going to have any real effect. Then it dawned on me.
‘I remember now,’ I said. ‘We lower this corner, where we’ve removed the leg, down onto the cushions. Then we tip the piano to remove the other two legs.’
‘So we don’t need the jack?’
‘I don’t think so.’
It was galling to think that I had supported the piano for all that time without any sensible reason. Ken, who had now supplied the room with gear more normally seen alongside beaten-up cars in greasy garage forecourts than around pianos in Parisian conservatoires, lined up the cushions and then joined me on the corner of the piano, and we began to lower it down. The further down we got, the greater the weight. As we neared the floor, it became apparent the cushions weren’t aligned properly.
‘I’ve got the weight,’ said Ken. ‘Quickly, move the cushions into place.’
I jumped into action, whilst my retired neighbour held a fair proportion of the entire weight of this 800-pound piano – roughly the equivalent of me, four and a half times. As I observed
Ken then waited, his eyes imploring me to enquire further.
‘And how did it perform?’ I asked.
‘It was sluggish.’
Ken beamed broadly, pleased at having had the occasion to work this joke into a conversation. The opportunity probably didn’t come up that often.
‘I walked into that,’ I conceded. ‘Very good.’
Ken beamed all the more. I had a go at changing his cheerful demeanour.
‘I don’t suppose you could help me shift my grand piano?’ I asked.
‘Where to?’
‘Just from one room to another. Should be fairly straightforward, although we may have to remove the legs.’
Instead of this question puncturing his high spirits, Ken responded as jovially as ever.
‘No problem. Shall I pop over this afternoon?’
‘Yes, please.’
Well done, Ken. So far, he was following instructions to the letter from the text book How To Be the Perfect Neighbour .
To be fair, the job was no more complicated than I’d made out. Having changed my mind about which room I preferred to play the piano in, I now wanted it moved into our living room from the ‘adjacent studio/office’ (as it had been described in the estate agent’s particulars). I’d allowed one hour to complete the job before I would need to leave for a meeting with a local councillor about buses. I’d noticed that the ones that came in and out of our village were nearly always empty, and I wondered why. Later that afternoon I would have some answers.
I was well prepared for the job. I’d watched my piano being moved several times before by teams of two men, and I was pretty sure I could remember the procedure. Admittedly, Ken and I didn’t have a special grand piano removal trolley, but I had a plan to overcome that. The wooden floor was shiny and flat between the two rooms, so I figured we could drag the piano between them on cushions and sheets. All we needed to do was remove the three legs.
Ken arrived, beaming with enthusiasm, and we set about our task. Disappointingly, we went off-script almost immediately. Instead of engaging in piano removal, we found ourselves scratching our heads, Stan Laurel-style. We just couldn’t fathom how to remove the legs without the help of a third person. In the end, Ken went back to his house to fetch a car jack – but unfortunately for me, he didn’t do this until we’d already tipped up the piano and removed one of the legs. This meant that I had to take the weight of one corner of the piano until Ken made it back.
‘How are you getting on, darling?’ said Fran, as she popped her head in.
‘Oh, not so bad,’ I said. ‘Just waiting on Ken, who’s fetching something.’
‘Great. I’m just nipping out to yoga. See you later. Good luck.’
It seemed an awfully long time before Ken re-entered carrying the new equipment, but it may have been only a few minutes. As I looked at Ken readying the jack, I couldn’t see a place on the piano where it was going to have any real effect. Then it dawned on me.
‘I remember now,’ I said. ‘We lower this corner, where we’ve removed the leg, down onto the cushions. Then we tip the piano to remove the other two legs.’
‘So we don’t need the jack?’
‘I don’t think so.’
It was galling to think that I had supported the piano for all that time without any sensible reason. Ken, who had now supplied the room with gear more normally seen alongside beaten-up cars in greasy garage forecourts than around pianos in Parisian conservatoires, lined up the cushions and then joined me on the corner of the piano, and we began to lower it down. The further down we got, the greater the weight. As we neared the floor, it became apparent the cushions weren’t aligned properly.
‘I’ve got the weight,’ said Ken. ‘Quickly, move the cushions into place.’
I jumped into action, whilst my retired neighbour held a fair proportion of the entire weight of this 800-pound piano – roughly the equivalent of me, four and a half times. As I observed
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