Ready for the off
I leave tomorrow at about 11:30, and am now as packed as I can be before then. My room looks horribly bare:
I had to leave those photos in the mirror up, or I might have become terminally depressed.
It always suprises and slightly dismays me that the vast majority of my worldly possessions fit into 6 small flat-pack crates and a suitcase.
So tomorrow it's back to London. Back to dialup. Back to incessant parental nagging about why I haven't got a job sorted for the summer/next year/why I haven't organised anything at all/why I'm so useless…
Why can't Being Simon Brent be a profession for which one can be paid?