Lost Books
One of the interesting things about moving house is the ability to discover things you thought you’d loss. Which is not, in fact, a sneaky way of announcing that I’m moving again – twice in a six-months span is quite enough for me, thanks – but among the various errands that have been run over the last couple of weeks is the clearing out of stuff left behind in my flatmate’s old place, on account of the fact that he’s finally sold it. Over the years I’ve come to accept that I’m quite terrible at moving house. I’ve done it quite a bit, and somehow I always manage to stop about 90% of the way through when the energy peters out just shy of unpacking the last few boxes. There’s always a handful of things that I basically move by taking empty boxes and throwing in a random assortment of stuff, and those boxes get moved from house to house without
