Inside Out: Invasion of the cardboard boxes...

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Tuesday was delivery day: D-Day, as I like to call it, because it was the day that had been in our diaries for a very long time and the day when all our hard work was set to be rewarded, when we would finally find out if Inside Out was indeed as great and as beautiful as we had been telling everyone who happened to cross our paths and whose paths we had actively sought out. Needless to say, we were all a little worried; especially me. I felt like I had a lot to live up to and a lot of expectations to meet.

I woke early, unable to sleep, visions of print nightmares running through my mind: I’d left a page out; I’d sent the wrong version, the one with the typo, the missing credit, the errant page number; I’d failed to explain something integral to an article. Silly things that I knew would not be an issue, because I had done my homework and worked all hours on perfecting those final proofs. I had checked and rechecked, and then checked again - ask any of my interns, they will all vouch for me. But sleep deprivation does strange things to you, as does reaching the finish line of a project after baby sitting it for so very many months. My Inbox, on turning on my computer, was hyperactive and blinking, full of excited emails that didn’t stop coming in. “Has it arrived yet?” “What does it look like?” When will I get my copy?” I had trouble keeping up, but it was fun and only served to fuel my excitement.

I ended up spending most of the morning, and the first half of the afternoon, pacing the house and making copious cups of tea. I found it impossible to sit and concentrate with the butterflies dancing a mad jig in my stomach. And I couldn’t go out, despite wanting to, because I wasn’t sure what time the nice delivery man with my boxes was turning up. It was a ballpark figure, dependent on packing the other end.

The phone rang. I fielded questions out loud and via email. I tried to calm the rest of the team and reassure them that it was almost over and that it would definitely be worth the wait. In the back of my mind that dream residue gently niggled away: but would it? Self-doubt descended, a suffocating black cloud. I did my best to chastise it and put it back in its box. Used to being obedient, it cowed and receded, biding its time for the next vulnerable day.

At last, when I was beginning to question if I had perhaps made a mistake with the date, the doorbell rang and there was my nice gentleman waiting patiently outside.

Unfortunately, my big strong man was working away from the home office; which meant it was up to me and the delivery man to lift eighty boxes, yes eighty, all weighing at least as much as a two-year-old I might add, into the house. I would like to share that I do not go to the gym regularly and that my muscles are far from gloriously defined and buff. I am a weakling when it comes to physical strength, always have been - and that’s not just a convenient excuse, promise!

Excitement and adrenaline kicked in. Inside Out was finally here in the world as a concrete entity that I could pick up, flick through, sniff, touch, caress and hold, a tangible reality that could no longer be doubted or denied.

The boxes passed from arm to arm in a well-organised chain, nice man to’ing and fro’ing from his white van to my front door, me bringing them in, in careful, straining arms, devouring all free space in the front room as they did so. The room darkened as they piled themselves up in front of the window. The television disappeared from sight as they spread themselves across the sitting room floor. I worried for a second that this was totally impractical and was bound to inflame the nerves of big strong man when he returned home from work, tired and desperate to kick back and relax. Then quickly realised that it was more likely to have a positive outcome - prompt him to help me cart them further into the house and attempt to distribute them more evenly across all available rooms, instead of letting them get comfortable and take up permanent residence in full sight and in the way. I can let you know it worked, a useful trick to recall at some future date.

Since then, the boxes have migrated - hunkering down beneath bookcases, reversing politely into corners, crouching humbly under tables, and even spreading, in an orderly fashion, up the narrow stretch of stairs. Where possible, they have even seemingly disappeared. More would have accommodated and followed suit, only I ran out of tablecloths a lot sooner than boxes. My charity shop scavenging for the heirlooms people throw out must immediately be resumed.

Now begins the task of finding homes for all of these delightful copies, and making sure they touch in positive ways on other people’s lives.

On opening the first box and diving into a copy - how amasing to be flicking through the very first one, all by myself, all to myself - all my anxiety and fear crumbled away in an instant. Inside Out looked every bit as special as I had hoped and lived up to its role as respectful vessel for the work it was cradling. After two long years, we had finally transformed that crazy light bulb of an idea into a sensible concrete reality. Perhaps we weren’t quite as misguided as those initial doubters once thought?

To adopt a copy of Inside Out and support a great new publication in its infancy, click here to order a copy. Every issue of Inside Out needs a home. It wouldn’t be fair to leave any behind, neglected and bereft of their siblings, gathering dust at the back of a dark cupboard in a sealed box.

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