the moving

I am utterly unprepared for the move, of course. After forty years, more or less, in the same house, the process of clearing out my room is as complicated and time-consuming as an archaeological dig. So many layers. So many rediscoveries demanding classification. So many horror anthologies. And Ed Wood’s Let Me Die In Drag - I thought I’d lost that. Or dreamed it.

And these aren’t even the essentials. I know there are many absolutely vital things that will be overlooked. I imagine waking in sudden terror on the first night as the realisation hits me that I have no soup spoon. No soup spoon! How will I eat soup? You think I’m joking, but that’s exactly the kind of thing that can keep you awake all night, until the dawn light filters in and with it the gradual realisation that Wilkinson’s will soon be open… and that, after all, you could probably use a dessert spoon if it came to it… and that there’s no soup in the house anyway.

I know, I know - I worry unnecessarily. But if I didn’t I’d end up worrying about things that really mattered, which would be quite intolerable.

I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll be just fine. My goal while in the new house is to finish my novel. It’s called All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy.

Apparently, they’ve forecast snow again…