A couple of years ago, I had to move for what felt like the 100th time. I was getting so used to it that I knew exactly where to find the cheapest van, how to pack my stuff efficiently and how to get it over with within hours.
At a certain point my friends had had enough and wasn’t available every other month to please me and my moving habits, but since I’m just a small, tiny, itsy-bitsy girl with absoutely no musclemass, it didn’t take me long to convince Casper. Casper is an American Footballer, so I figured he had the muscles needed. A little “uuh, you’ve got some biiig muscles” and we started moving!
We rented a big, old truck with automatic transmission (something we don’t come across in Denmark often) that was falling apart. There must have been something wrong with it, because it made the weirdest sounds, plus smoke came out of it when driving.
However, we chose to play the part; we felt like outlaws, robbing a bank. Casper found a dirty beret, I came across a scruffy, old hat.
Within no time, we were very French and very mafioso.
P.S. Oh yeah, by the way. At the end of the move we found out why the truck was smoking. Someone forgot to release the handbreak.