We paid to have most of our packing done for us- which means we have no idea what's in most of the boxes. Our packers packed efficiently but without sentiment, bundling together objects that have no connection with one another other except than that they once happened to be stashed in the same corner of the same room. Sometimes they packed rubbish. And sometimes they packed things that should have remained at the farm- like a set of keys to the window locks.
I have a little knife with an inch long blade that hangs on my key ring. It's ideal for slitting open the tape that seals the boxes. Zip, zip. "Now what's in here?" "Oh joy, a doubled-up pillow from the garden furniture we decided not to bring with us."
Then there are all the ornaments. I thought we'd cleared out masses before we moved- and so we did- but there are just so many- my mother's ornaments, our ornaments, Ailz's mother's ornaments, Her godmother's ornaments...
I'm getting to be ruthless. I unwrapped the contents of one box of ornaments, selected out one or two that plucked at my heart-strings, then wrapped the others up again, put them in a carrier bag- and they've already gone to the charity shop depository on Moy Street.
Ailz had a friend called Moy. Steve Moy. He was a mechanic. He used to fix up our cars for us- and I have an uneasy feeling we still owe him money...
And what's in this one?
1. Some documents relating to the history of my mother's family.
2. The text of a novel I wrote 20 years ago and failed to get published. There's a character in it called Carlos. Carlos? Really? I don't remember ever writing a character called Carlos...
3. A wire tray for stacking papers in
4. A Mother's Day card from Odi
5. A sheath knife with a horn handle. I thrum the blade with my thumb- and you could shave with it. Whose was it? My father's? My Uncle Dick's? Certainly not mine though I did have a sheath knife of my own and wore it openly in the streets because I belonged- briefly and unhappily- to that junior militia known as the Cub Scouts.
In fact I think I do still own that Cub Scout sheath knife. I guess it'll be in one of the other boxes...
I have a little knife with an inch long blade that hangs on my key ring. It's ideal for slitting open the tape that seals the boxes. Zip, zip. "Now what's in here?" "Oh joy, a doubled-up pillow from the garden furniture we decided not to bring with us."
Then there are all the ornaments. I thought we'd cleared out masses before we moved- and so we did- but there are just so many- my mother's ornaments, our ornaments, Ailz's mother's ornaments, Her godmother's ornaments...
I'm getting to be ruthless. I unwrapped the contents of one box of ornaments, selected out one or two that plucked at my heart-strings, then wrapped the others up again, put them in a carrier bag- and they've already gone to the charity shop depository on Moy Street.
Ailz had a friend called Moy. Steve Moy. He was a mechanic. He used to fix up our cars for us- and I have an uneasy feeling we still owe him money...
And what's in this one?
1. Some documents relating to the history of my mother's family.
2. The text of a novel I wrote 20 years ago and failed to get published. There's a character in it called Carlos. Carlos? Really? I don't remember ever writing a character called Carlos...
3. A wire tray for stacking papers in
4. A Mother's Day card from Odi
5. A sheath knife with a horn handle. I thrum the blade with my thumb- and you could shave with it. Whose was it? My father's? My Uncle Dick's? Certainly not mine though I did have a sheath knife of my own and wore it openly in the streets because I belonged- briefly and unhappily- to that junior militia known as the Cub Scouts.
In fact I think I do still own that Cub Scout sheath knife. I guess it'll be in one of the other boxes...