Few things in life suck balls more than moving house. Yeah, yeah, I know – cancer and urine infections – but you know, moving house.

Oh, and death. But mainly moving house.

I tend to lose my way a bit when I move house – it’s as though my brain shuts down vital circuits of communication and all the essential duties which need fulfilling – packing, references, transport – are reduced to mere footnotes on my Great House Move List which has one scrawled entry, triple underlined – ‘Buy kettle’ – and a doodle of the queen breaking wind with ‘Queen of Farts’ written beneath it. Try as I might, I can’t seem to grow out of my fourteen year old shell.

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Sadly it seems as though circumstances have forced me to at least assume some sense of responsibility. It’s either up to me or my daughter and she’s three which means we’ll be eating play-doh and chocolate buttons for the rest of our lives or until we’re finished off by scurvy, whichever comes first.

So I packed a box of books. Let me say one thing. If Stephen King is murdered tomorrow I am going to be suspect #1. I did not realise I had so many of his books until they were all lined up, spine facing me so that his name could be read over and over again. It is like the final reveal in a film about a spinster loner who forms an unhealthy obsession with him and makes cakes out of his toenail clippings or something. Not good. Must extend reading list or the ghosts in the basement will eat me and my friends.

So I will be posting sporadically for a bit – I still have no laptop so if I don’t find one assume that all my future posts will be made using Semaphore or fucking smoke signals or something.

 

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