billy

so I had my own place finally, it
was in a late 1960s block on the edge of well-kept estate and
I was up on a hill and I could see most of the town from these huge
floor-to-ceiling windows in the wide, bright
living room;

I'd stripped it all out and painted it and kept it simple and I needed
bookcases more than anything, so

I went to ikea with mark and sarah; we hired a van. the nearest one was miles away so
it was a bit of a day out, eating swedish meatballs in the saturday din
of the canteen there, mark messing about, as he does

so I get these two very plain bookcases and because the whole flat is so white,
I got them in a sort of silvery grey (they looked good, really. it worked, OK?)
and
you know how everything in ikea has a stupid name, something scandinavian you can't
pronounce usually, well these
bookcases were called BILLY and

we got them in the van and drove back and it's all
high spirits and whatnot and we pull up as close as we can to
the door of the building and mark and I wrestle these fucking
flatpacks into there and up the three flights of stairs. sarah sits in the van.
I'm 90% sure she would have been pregnant with tom around then. anyway, she
sat in the van and we did the work

so we're getting the second one up there and I can hear a phone ringing and
as we get to the top floor I think that's my phone,
who's calling, not
many people have my new number and oh fuck it, they'll call back
if it's something important but
it's ringing and ringing and I'm thinking shit it must be something urgent and I'm like
what if SOMETHING'S HAPPENED so
we get the bloody thing in the door and plonk it down and I'm running
for the phone and it's still ringing and
sarah's voice goes:
is billy in?