The Woman Who Tried To Cancel My Booked Removal Van So She Could Have It

I booked a van and two men for a Saturday, six weeks out, because I am organised and because moving with a bad back is a lesson you only need once.

Two days before, the company rang to confirm the cancellation.

I said what cancellation.

They said I had rung on Wednesday at 11:40 and cancelled, and rebooked for a Tuesday in three weeks.

I had not. I was at work at 11:40 on Wednesday, in a meeting, with eleven witnesses and, thank God, a calendar invite.

Then they said the thing that turned this from a mix-up into a story: the caller had asked whether the Saturday slot would now be free, and whether it could be transferred to a different address on the same street.

That address is number 8.

Number 8 is a woman who had told me, at the bins, three weeks earlier, that she was "having trouble getting a van" and that it was "typical" that I had one.

I gave the removal company my name, my booking reference, and the words "please do not release my slot".

They kept my slot. They were mortified. The man who did the actual move told me, at my new kitchen table, that in nineteen years he had never had a customer impersonated by a neighbour, and that he had told the office to note her number.

I did nothing. I want to be honest about that, because people always want an ending where I ruin her.

I did not ruin her. I moved.

The one thing I did do was this: as we pulled away, the men — who had heard the whole story and who were enjoying themselves — did a slow, ceremonial lap of the close, with the van, at four miles an hour, and beeped once outside number 8.

She was at the window.

She did not wave. I did.