As I type this my fingers are jumping over hurdles of books, stationary and empty CD covers. My hands are navigating streets lined with papers and perfume and even a dragon bought in Thailand, just to get to the keyboard. My room is a mess and my house is a war-zone of different factions fighting each other. I think the tools and camping gear is launching an attack on the stuff-I-want-to-give-to-the-hospice-shop pile but I am too scared to look. The hammer and four nails that just rolled defeated into my bedroom is probably not a great sign.
Why oh why did I keep clothes that I last wore in my final year of school. Was I so sure that I would drop two sizes on my diet of coke, cheese and eating chocolate sauce out of the bottle? Also what is with all the magazines, did I really think that one morning I would wake up and want nothing more than to read a car magazine that is four years old.
|My fridge in Japan: yeah I still love myself some cheese.|
|Not Keisuke, but the car we traded him in for.|
|The car I wish I drove|
|Me freezing in good old Keisuke|
|My first apartment in Japan!|
It is best that I get back to packing now, since I think I see the photo frames building a rudimentary shelter out of computer boxes to shield themselves against the coming invasion of the crockery. Wish me luck.