Boxes

I have just moved for the second time in a year, and the third time in three years. The last time, back in April last year, was meant to be more temporary than it actually turned out to be; the time before that was awash with an ocean of emotion.

There is something very bizarre about packing all one's belongings into boxes: my whole life, my accumulated material possessions, packed into cardboard cubes and stacked in a pyramid.

Simultaneously so much and so litte stuff.

Packing my boxes, preparing to move, is always a salutary experience. I don't believe I have a lot of clutter, though I seem to have a fair bit; but what I do have is saturated with memories.

I still have the cutlery and crockery that I bought when I first lived by myself, in a bedsit on the campus of York University, twenty three years ago; I have the same two pots that I got at the same time. (They have been well used, but well looked after, too: there is no need to change them.)

All the objects – packing and unpacking – have history associated with them. There are lots of stories.

I have paintings and photographs imbued with recollections; I can remember where I was when I bought and when I read most of the books I have.

I have many, many boxes in store in Edinburgh. I need to liberate these, and then spend months unpacking and sorting through.

So much history.