This melody has stayed with me, at least. The on-hold melody of the Polish shipping company, which was supposed to accompany me and provide sound for the last eight weeks. A composition that would have been the soundtrack to countless dirty films on VHS in the eighties and is now stuck in my earpiece as a memory. What happened?

Two months ago I decided to swap my daughter’s beautiful bunk bed for a real bed. The child is eight and we wanted to create incentives to stop sleeping in the parents’ bed from now on. Ordered a model in old pink online. Will be delivered next week. Alright. Only the Scandinavian bunk bed has to be sold so that there is room when the new one arrives.

So you sit down in the classifieds (formerly Ebay) and stare for hours, even days, into the digital abyss of blaring disinterest. Then you grudgingly reduce the price, wait, reduce again, to 100 euros negotiated. Until you panic because the new bed will be delivered the day after tomorrow. After sobering hours it’s time to “give it away”.

The people who want it will move you twice. Still others would probably take it – if you brought it to them. You just want to smash the fucking boards and throw them on the street. Nevertheless, the precise landing is successful. A couple comes at 11 p.m., dismantles the bed and creates the desired space. The new one should come tomorrow. It’s not coming.

My name is Micky Beisenherz. In Castrop-Rauxel I am a world star. Elsewhere I have to pay for everything myself. I am a multimedia (single) general store. Author (Extra3, Jungle Camp), presenter (ZDF, NDR, ProSieben, ntv), podcast host (“Apocalypse and Filter Coffee”), occasional cartoonist. There are things that stand out to me. Sometimes even upset me. And since their impulse control is constantly stuck, they probably have to get out. My religious symbol is the crosshairs. The razor blade is my dance floor. And my feet are itching again.

After you have reserved the somewhat imprecise time slot from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. as agreed, you get a call towards the end of the day: “Transporter broken. New appointment. We’ll get in touch.” Hold music. Diplomatic contacts with Poland are established. New delivery date next week. Another day whose essence is waiting. At some point a call: “Yes, well, we’ll be there around 4:30 p.m.” They were not there. Instead, the capitulation around 5:45 p.m.: “There’s probably a triathlon or something here in town. We can’t get through. We’ll get back to you with a new date.”

For weeks there was scheduling and haggling, misunderstandings, number twists like Wirecard’s credit check, while the child sat in a bedless battlefield of rooms. Chaos, phone calls, emails and text messages to nowhere. And this queue pop again and again. The child continued to sleep in our bed.

At some point the time had come: “The driver is at your door.” Like a Labrador wanting to greet its long-lost owner, I rush down the three floors and out into the street. Nothing. Not a transporter. No one. Call the shipping company. Holding pattern. Ten minutes later the call back. The driver had the wrong address. Well, exactly the wrong one that I had already corrected three times by phone, text message and email. One unpleasant German freak out and three quarters of an hour later the seven and a half ton truck was there.

It was completely clear that the driver would be happy to drag the bed up to the third floor for all the stress. The good news: He was immediately convinced by my annoyed, dominant presence. The bad news: The driver was around 15 years old and weighed 27 kilograms. He sat the bed down on every other step in the hallway to recover.

Now I’m sitting in the armchair sweating; my daughter sleeps blissfully next door. And doesn’t even come to my bed to cuddle anymore. Fortunately, this farewell was delayed a little.