truly, is there anything more soul-destroyingly tedious than packing up and moving? i have spent all morning sneezing at unmitigated pieces of dust as the emerge from the backs of pieces of furniture i haven't cleaned behind since, well, ever. somehow i have managed to generate three refuse sacks full of crap from one rather small room. crap, as they ought to say, begets crap – it would certainly explain why i seem to have been hording back issues of the new york times under my bed in the manner of one of those strange old people who went a bit mental in the blitz and could never bear to part with anythng and then ended their lives on a bbc2 documentary called 'freaky dirty old person' or similar.
and i'm only clearing out one room – how do people manage to move house without laying waste to those about them with a pick-axe? curiously, my family have never moved house – my parents just build new bits on to it every five years or so. sheer bloody bone-idleness, i call it. it is, i think, the domestic equivalent of those rich people who only wear their underpants once and then buy new ones. but also not.
so i am nearly packed and ready to a) go home to the UK and b) move to a new house in the USA. this, of course, is what is known the profession as the 'double-move' (brilliant, no?) and will all end in tears. it is not that i am having trouble deciding what needs to be in which town (or, indeed, on whch continental landmass) but i seem to have failed to provision myself with the requisite number of suitcases. it is another one of those grown-up things. proper grown-ups always have luggage – and spare cases in the attic. thus luggage goes on my list of things to get when i'm a proper grown-up. also on:
more than one saucepan.
drink glasses which are not for wine or beer
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