Books play a large part in my life.
When the bulk of my possessions arrived in Spain, some fifteen years ago, there were fifteen boxes of books. I’d already acquired a lot in the time I’d been living here, and, since then, the collection has expanded still further.
Now, many of these need to be moved.
We’ve decided that the easiest way to transport them – at least the yards and yards of cheap paperbacks – is to tie them into piles, as it’s a lot easier to hold onto strings than to carry boxes.
The poor things look most uncomfortable, though, and I think they are finding the move as stressful as I am. Moving house is on the much cited list of ‘stressful life events’. (Interestingly, that explanation of the research suggests that such events are associated with illness in general, not just with mental health which is the way I’d remembered it.)
Of course, owning books implies a need for bookcases, and however many I own, the book collection expands to overflow the space available.
Our first move after all my things arrived, was between two flats, just two streets apart in the city centre, so we moved everything ourselves by hand. At one point, we were carrying a bookcase, with my partner in front and me tagging valiantly along behind, when he stops, turns round and berates me: “Why aren’t you as tall as I think you are?!?” To which there really is no answer.
My mother tells me that my very first move (before my first birthday) was made on April 30th. She finally managed to get the last box unpacked so we children could play with our toys in the Christmas holidays.
Maybe I shouldn’t feel so disheartened about how long things seem to be taking, after all.
don't confuse the narrator 