“I should have bought that trolley when I saw it,” Best Beloved muttered last Sunday morning. Accustomed to such rumbles, I contributed a “Yes, darling. Which trolley?” at some point, and was rewarded by: “A porter's trolley. Those things they use in English stations to heave trunks around!”
Of course. Why didn't I guess?
“We need to squeeze the mandoras today,” he continued (of course, Spirit of the Donkey lives). “And the steel tanks are too heavy for us to lift to the press...”
“A skateboard?” I suggested, remembering a useful solution to heavy moving in the past. “With some thick marine ply to distribute the weight?”
It looked like some homemade version of a miniature 1950's Cadillac, but the contraption got the job done, though it cornered with difficulty. We wheeled the fermenting mandoras through Alex's room (“I don't want that stinky stuff in here!”) to the big press set up outside his French doors, squeezed them, carted the peels up to the compost, and left the juice to some more fermenting.