Three angels at my door

First off, I will admit to you that I am knackered, absolutely shattered so forgive the bad storytelling but I need to share this because I need to say thank you.

Friday morning. Friday? Yesterday? A hundred years have passed it feels... So yeah, yesterday morning I get a call from the allocations team saying the removal people aren't coming in the afternoon, as stated the previous day, but in the morning.

"Oh my God, I'm not ready," said wired me. "Do you think they'll help me pack?"
"No, you should have done that. They're coming early to remove it because you have a lot to move, so they're coming this morning so that they have time to unload it this afternoon."
"Oh my God, I hope they're nice. Do you think they'll be nice? I really hope they're nice." I race upstairs. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Where to fecking start?????????

Five minutes later, five, the buzzer goes and three minutes later I have three men standing outside my door. One in his twenties, one in his thirties and the other in his forties (I'm guessing).

"Are you nice?" I'm pretty fecking desperate, my eyes plead, plead, plead.
They stare at me. "Er.."
"Are you? Are you nice? You have to be nice, I need somebody nice. You see, erm, I'm not finished."
Looking over my shoulder they'd have seen quite how unfinished I was but the poor guys hadn't seen the living room or the kitchen yet. Oh shit.
"Some stuff's ready, so you take that and I'll get on with the rest. I'd offer you a cup of tea but I've packed all my cups..."

I can't remember which room I was in when the younger one asks: "Do you want all these coats?"

Ah bless, he'd bought up a box! In went my coat, my jacket from shit school acquaintance, my 'leather' jacket, my son's winter coat and spring jacket. "Leave out the cycling jacket," I said.

The other two were in the bedroom, deliberating if they'd be able to get the big box of clothes out.

I shall cut a long story short. They repacked that big box and packed up pretty much everything else. I don't know what the hell I was doing. I was in the bathroom and one would call: "Do you need this?" and I'd go to that room and forget about the bathroom.

Towards the end there was only the kictchen left to do. The two younger guys chatted while I tried, tried so hard to read sell by dates on food. I couldn't see anything, staring for an age at a packet of flour.

"Are you nearly done yet?" called one of them.
"Er, er..." Fuck it, if I can read it, bin it. Well, not bin it, no time to bin it, leave it, just leave it there.

I had my angel badge pinned to my top. I showed them, said I was always asking for help.

Four hours it took the four of us to clear my stuff.
"Do you think I have alot?" I asked them afterwards.
"No, not really," they replied.
Their big, huge Pickford's van wasn't even half full.

Lovely men, lovely, helping me like that and in good humour too. They didn't give me the impression they were pissed off at all. One told me he had four children under 8. "Four! Your poor wife! I don't know how she does it, one is enough for me!"

"I hope you're paid well," I said, wishing I had a fat tip to give them all.

They drove to the new place. I cycled.

"We're just going to pop out for a bit of lunch if that's ok."

Lunch? I hadn't even had breakfast. I had no money and hadn't thought about whether my bank card was in a coat pocket or bag until all said items had been packed anyway. I'd found a £2 coin earlier. Oh Happy Meal, oh happy happy a meal.

I was so excited when I saw the flat again, properly. "I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky, I'm so lucky!" was all I could say to my champions of the day.

"You've got a nice place," they said when they saw it. And yes, comparatively, when you're moving stuff out of a shoe box to a place three times the size, it's an amazing place.

"When you read in the papers about how benefit babes get to live in luxury while hardworking folk like you struggle to pay your rent or mortage, know that I've fought hard for seven years for a council flat and this is the second time I've failed to get one. It's not our fault, it's the system we're caught in."

I had to sign a form and add any comments so I wrote: "They worked beyond the call of duty, I hope you pay them well." I then asked their names.

"Stuart, Paul and Perry."

Thank you so much Stuart, Paul and Perry. So so much, more than I could ever say thank you.

And thank you Camden Council for providing a removal service for me. Quite honestly, with no driving licence, I don't how the hell I'd've done it or afforded it.

So yes Pickfords, pay your staff well. "Nice" doesn't even begin to describe them.
They are, quite simply, amazing.