Kitchen Assemblage Day 24

Twas a cold, windy morn in January. Rain lashed down against the window panes. The light from the sun, which hadn't yet ventured above the horizon, was filtering through the thick clouds, casting the outside world in shades of dark blue.

From out of the squall, three figures emerge. Armed with the tools of their trade they open the back of their van. They have a job to do and they intend on doing it right; get in, do their thing, get out. Minimal fuss.

A silhouette of a man is also visible, standing in the leaky porch of the house, backlit by the light in the hallway. He's been watching and waiting. He knew he was next on their list and has steeled himself for what is to come.

Two of the strangers approach the house with boxes. Big boxes. The sort of boxes you could hide things in. They quietly enter the house. 

But after a few moments they're back outside in the pouring rain, retrieving an even bigger box from the van. The wind is strong and it threatens to topple the men but they fight the elements; failing to be daunted by the maelstrom. 

This box, this tall, heavy, cumbersome box fights back. It doesn't want to go into the house; it refuses to be tamed. 

Knives come out. In a frenzy of motion, cardboard, plastic and polystyrene litter the ground. The contents of the box is stood there, naked. Exposed to the wind, to the rain. Prying eyes peek through their curtains, drawn to the cacophony.

The colossus has been subdued but not defeated. No. They manage to get it into the hallway but it decides it's going no further. It's nudged and cajoled but to no avail.

The three warriors depart. They have done their best but they have expended their time. They need to move on to their next job. The day is still young and there are more hits on their list. They return to their van and drive off, their rear lights fading to grey through the rain.

The silhouette in the porch looks dejected. His shoulders have slumped, his head has dropped. The burden that now rests upon him is weighing heavily. He steps into the house and closes the door. He knows what he must do.

The foes stare at each other. Neither of them intends to back down. They're in this to the bitter end.

Screwdrivers were brandished, doors came off their hinges, handles came off doors,  doorframes got scratched and carpets got ruffled. Even a rudimentary sled was constructed from cardboard. Up, down, side to side; the battle raged for over an hour. There was heaving, there was pushing; there were cries, there was profanity; but after that hour, the man was victorious.

By the end, a crowd had gathered. Onlookers, too scared to get involved now cheered with delight. Drinks were distributed and glasses were raised in celebration. Soon, however, the crowd once again dissipated and the events were forgotten. The lure of the television, with it's siren song, stole back the onlookers' gaze.

And that is where we end today's tale. More may have happened but with nobody to witness it, did it really happen? Or does that cause it to become make-believe? 

Forget the tailoring of spaces, forget the moving of hinges. Forget the ordering of worktops. Nobody saw that, so it can't have happened.

Until next time, fare-thee-well dear reader, fare-thee-well.