Packing

So, the move is nigh.

On Tuesday, in fact. Thus it is time address the need to get everything from one cottage to the other. Of late I have found myself regarding household items with suspicion, both individually and as a group. Just why are there so many of you t-shirts? Are you all strictly necessary? You, the chest of drawers, there; are you going to require a trip in the transit van, taking up the space required for the fridge and the washing machine?

But, of course, this sort of whimsy is exactly the kind of displacement activity that I indulge in to distract myself from the core concern of how the hell will I get my packing done? When I went to pack my books, for example, I lifted one small selection from the shelf and, twenty minutes later, found myself deeply involved in Mick Karn's autobiography, a tome I have previously found indigestible due to its vitriol towards David Sylvian. (I mean, I suspect he is a bit tricky to get a long with but, jeez, more about the bass lines and recording sessions, please!)

Concentration, focus and feeling-guilty-about-not-actually-packing-anything arrived in the form of The Minx, who set about packing while I was still wondering whether a second coffee might be in order. Consequently by 1pm more progress had been made than would have been achieved in a day (or, more realistically, two) if I'd been on my own and I decided that popping out for lunch would be an ideal way to ignore just how much there was left to do.

So we headed up the valley to a pub that I've driven past loads of times but never been into, where, it turned out, the food was good, the magazines were engagingly ancient - 1960s and 70s - and we had plenty of time to enjoy this, the view from the table out the front.