It's fun this packing thing. It's exciting and fills me with a certain joy and optimism.
I jest. Obviously.
It's like pulling teeth one by one, painfully and slowly and really really getting into that bit where the bone is crunching and the roots have to be smashed out with a small hammer. I hate it. I hate digging through my treasures and uprooting them from the homes they have rested in for the past five years. I hate finding out that I have not one, not two, not three, but four copies of Shirley. And I don't even like it very much.
I hate culling books and clothes and trying to shoehorn my life into an uncertain future. How do I KNOW whether I'll want to ever read The Dice Man again? It's unlikely, sure, on account of the protagonist being a massive twat, but I might. I might want to. And then if I've given it to Oxfam I'll have to buy it again.
When you have this dilemma about at least half of your 3,000 strong book collection, it's impossible to find packing anything other than a massive, tumourous lump of stress.
Oh yeah, and who the hell has three of the same edition of Love All The People?Not one of them is the extended edition. I mean, Bill Hicks is a legend, but for fuck's sake. Some kind of cataloguing system could be in order when I finally get to the new house....