I have responded sensibly to the date in a few weeks hence set for moving flats by taking all the stuff my parents dumped on my a few months back out of its boxes and leaving it lying around my room. The floor is strewn with school books from twenty-five years ago, old posters, badges, stuff to go to charity shops, old books and tee shirts that haven't fitted me since primary school.
Things I have rediscoveered;
1. I hoard bits of paper like it's going out of fashion. Which I suppose is broadly true. I need to stop this. It is not healthy.
2. I used to be in the Pulp fan club.
3. I also used to be in the Dennis the Menace fan club.
4. I own a pocket watch with a tick so loud it prevents sleep.
5. I own every letter everyone has ever sent me. Ever. And I remain rubbish at replying to correspondence.
6. As a band, Octopus never achieved the kind of fame their promotional materials promised.
7. Lauren Laverne has apparently not aged. At all.
There will be more of this.
In the course of all this rummaging. I have also disturbed ... something. I was woken at 1.30am a few nights back by a muffled scurrying. A fluttering in the boxes on top of my wardobe. It was distressingly loud. The room was dark. I did not investigate.*
So I have to sort out all this STUFF. It's fun, if I can keep my enthusiasm up. Fingers crossed on the move. Everything is signed and sealed. In theory, we just have to pick up the keys in a couple of weeks. Normally flathunting is a deathly experience, but it went okay this time.
*This morning I find that a childhood teddy bear is missing a kidney.