I don't really know why I am writing about moving house. I've just done it. I haven't got time to write about moving house. I helped move for my lover, not for me. My stuff will be moved here next. I'm tired now, what will I be then? A pool of lard greasing into the carpet no doubt.

I sit here, using one of the few things here that I own, my precious computer, in the midst of a terrible mess and I wonder what the hell causes us human beings to collect up such a lot of possessions AKA junk in our lives.

I suppose it IS entertaining, something to do with our money once we have shelter and food. It's gotta be good for you to gain objects like brass barometers, faded photographs of places we've never been, china dolls no one ever plays with because they are too delicate, plastic models of war machines, fabric flowers made in Asia and covered in two years of cooking grease and dust, items made by us or our kids in school.

It is all around me, the detritus of 43 years of his life and his divorce. Next it's me. The morass and mess made by the successes and failures of 41 years of laziness and {occasionally} work.

Oh My Goddess! Where will I put it all?
Garage Sale Here I come!

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