BOXES

I think the handwritten receipt for my two night-stay in the hotel in Antananarivo, Madagascar, year 1998 - can go. Neither do we need a box of skiing socks. They have since been replaced. And I don’t think I will use the logo of my Daniel Poole party shirt anymore. I cut it out and kept it (why?).

To tell you the truth, it is rather depressing going through boxes you have been storing for five years. It seems there is very little you are happy to be reunited with. Boxes full of dusty, pen-stained bags, bits of fabric I thought might come in handy one day -you know that day I learn to sew - and lots and lots of fuzzy pictures of me and my friends, looking particularly puffy and pasty faced, stuffed into yes, more boxes. The beauty of youth? It is a myth. That in itself is a depressing realization, especially as my memory served me better.

There is to be exact one unpacked box left, waiting near the door downstairs, filled with tangled cords and papers. I will leave it for a few months, I think.

But this is not to say there are not many unpacked items still to be found a proper place; like the collection of silver date-inscribed mugs, -serviette rings and letter openers. You have to keep those, but where? We are moving them from desktop to chair. I suppose the back of a drawer will do.

I have been living in a twilight zone of dust and stuff, all of us sneezing every morning and rubbing our itchy eyes. So I also fight the dust bunnies. Feeding my children sandwiches at all meals and myself glasses of deep red wine with dark chocolate. Now and then I leave the house during the day and am surprised to find people sitting on the terraces drinking a glass in the sunshine.

God, I hate moving.

The house is nearly a home, so the wine and chocolate will have to stop on a daily basis I suppose.

Love S1