The Book Of Memories.
I pulled the last box out of the rusty mover’s truck and turned around to make my way upstairs. The stairs that led me to my new apartment were, to sugar-coat it, “dingy.” It was a Victorian-style building that was clearly a hundred years old. It was well lived in, by many old officials of the British army. Later, due to a shortage of space in the city, these apartments were rented out as smaller spaces for much cheaper prices. Anyway, I had no right to complain. I mean I was getting all this for peanuts. Sure it’s not luxurious but it fits my budget and has all the necessities. I reached upstairs to find the movers’ driver standing outside with the door ajar. He helped me stack the last box on top of the rest and stood with his hands on his hips. Are we supposed to tip? I mean, what the hell’s service tax for? He huffed and so I placed a couple of dollars on his palm that he had very demandingly brought out. He huffed again, disappointed, turned around and left, banging the door b