Packing stuff

Weirdest thing; I keep loosing a week.

One moment I've convinced myself it's next week I'm moving, the next I have a Homer moment and complete with head-slap realise that nope it's the-week-after-next.

Having not moved significantly in a few years now (compared to at least a few people I know), it's strange to be packing up the four corners of my nest. Packing for travelling I can do blindfolded - that I will quite happily boast. Give me a destination, or better-still even an aimless journey and I can chuck stuff together in no-time and be off. Ask me to gather together the hoardings of many-a-year back at base however and that's easier said than done. Behind me lie various mounds of detrius, each with a mental labels. Stuff to keep, stuff to throw, stuff to recycle and where the hell did this stuff come from? Every so often I pause to flick through an old book, regard an old photo or wonder why on earth have I kept a six-year old lottery ticket. It's amazing the memories that keep pop in and out of your mind as I come across long-forgotten stuff; like one of those life-before-your eyes montages you get in the movies when a character is close to death.

One wall looks positively naked now that the bookcase is downstairs in the garage along with a surprising six (large) whole boxes of books that have been packed away down there. Next I've turned my attention to the chest of draws (site of the most intriguing finds of the day and source of said piles; that lottery ticket, old calendars, a small flagpole and incredible lengths of string).

Though I'm getting increasingly ruthless in my old age about what to take and what to leave behind, there's a strong instinct at work that speaks:

Take something with you of your youth, what speaks of home and what speaks of you.