Sight for Sore Eyes

My colleagues and I spent the last two days, from 9.30am to 6pm, dismantling our old office and its attached exhibition, carrying it down two flights of stairs and shoving it into these two skips. On Thursday, I spent the morning inside the larger skip in the photo above, arranging the planks that were passed onto me so that we'd optimise the use of space. When I first climbed into the skip, there was old goo on its floor that smelled like shit and oozed like pig fat; it covered my shoes and trousers, and eventually my hands too.

Up and down two flights of stairs, all day, for two days. Wearing workers' gloves so that our hands wouldn't get hurt (but that didn't stop the rusty nails cutting gashes into my arms and legs.) Propping big pieces of wood on the side of the building then jumping on them until they were snapped into smaller bits. So hungry by 2, 3pm, that I could eat giant sandwiches from Arthur's Diner, plus a mountain of chips, and still want more. Coming home on Thursday and last night, dropping my clothes straight in the washing machine, sliding into a hot bath that was as mindless and stinging as my muscles were sore. Feeling like a zombie all night, then sleeping badly because my muscles woke me up when I turned in bed. And yet, feeling really good too because of a job well done, finally completed. There's nothing more satisfying then putting your body to use and discovering your hidden strengths and endurance.

Our boss has given us Monday off in recognition of our hard work. I might be able to hobble to Victoria Park's bagel shop today for some lunch. The image in the mirror is of a fit young man with panda bear eyes. And I'm very excited about the future of my organization, which has moved to a sleek new office building that overlooks Regent's Canal. February is nearly over.