The Box Men

My things arrived yesterday. Brought down from Glasgow to London in a rickety van, stored in London for a few months, then loaded unto another van (even more rickety, though I wouldn’t have thought it possible) and driven over by a hippie Italian and his preppy French friend. Anyway, they’re here. I haven’t opened anything yet, but there are no visible signs of damage. But as I was hauling the boxes up the stairs –third floor, no lift. Why do I keep picking flats without a lift?!– and cursing emancipation (we were three ‘men’, you see, and we had a floor each to cover. Hippie and Preppy didn’t seem to notice that I’m half their weight and they could have carried me up the stairs as easily as those boxes), I wasn’t sure if I still wanted any of it.

I don’t have a lot of stuff. In fact, if this were an unfurnished flat, my boxes wouldn’t even begin to make a dent in the space. But I’ve been living with my two suitcases worth of stuff for the past six months and, to be honest, I haven’t missed the rest all that much. I move too often to own things, and because I realize this, I’m always giving or throwing things away. But there’s always stuff that survives the cut somehow. Seems like there’s a big gap between knowing you don’t need or even want something, and managing to let it go. I’m going to try and see –when I ever get around to opening them– how much of the boxed stuff I can still eliminate. I’m really curious…

I take it back –well, partially: trying to create some sort of a system, I had to open a few boxes…then one thing led to another and I ended up opening them all. More kitchen stuff and croquery than I’ll ever need (the result of an obligatory wedding list). But other than that, it was like Christmas came early. I wonder if it’s normal to be so ecstatic to see old books…