Packing It In

I hate packing. It seems so futile to spend ages putting lots of things into boxes and bags to then only take them out of boxes and bags not long after. Sure, if I didn't put them in boxes and bags then transporting them to a different location would be even more fiddly and tiresome, but it still feels pointless to me in the same way I don't understand the need to clean a bath when its full of water and soap most of the time anyway. Of course it gets full of dirt from people using the bath or shower too and therefore my point is rendered pointless. Except that I still like to believe I'm right and the same goes for packing. Its stupid. Even though its totally not. I am, essentially, constantly having arguments in my head with my own stupid self, but at the same time being proud I'm stubborn enough to stick to my guns. Like a cowboy with glue on their hands. Tee hee. So far most things are done, with some odd collaborations of clothes and my xbox, toiletries and various DVDs, and now all that's left are the weird little bits and bobs that won't rightfully fit anywhere. How on earth, for example, do I pack my R2D2 alarm clock, three bottles of single malt whisky and my collector's edition Radiohead vinyl together? One of those will break and depending on which one, it could damage the others too. See, this is why packing is stupid.

I've said this before but one day they will invent a winzip for real stuff and I'll be really pleased. Instead of having to hire a van, I'd just winzip my cupboard and bed, stick it in my pocket and stroll leisurely to my new flat. Of course the new flat would have to have the correct winzip installed otherwise my cupboard and bed would just appear as a large bit of white paper covered in gobbledegook and that could be awkward. Still it could be used as a lovely art piece that I could look at as I trip up on my clothes that are all over the floor. Its nearly a working idea, no? I mean imagine how much easier carrying my cactus would be if I made it the size of a pea? So much easier. Instead it stands like two huge thorny swords and I have yet, over the 4 years I've had it, worked out a way to carry it without injuring myself in some way. I tend to emerge from a short journey looking like I've been attacked by all the cats. Every one.

Still, I'm excited really. Being one of the boomerang generation hasn't been ideal. Boomerang generation, by the way, are those who've managed to escape the clutches of living at home with their parents and yet then have been forced back into it via circumstance or financial issues. Its possibly also because like a boomerang, no one really knows what to do with us. I've had a boomerang before and tried to throw it using all instructions given, but it just lamely flopped to the ground several feet infront of me. Had I got it to work, how long could I really be content playing with it? Its very much a lonely man's catch. I've now been at home since May of this year (less a month when I was in Edinburgh) and whilst I my parents have been ace, and I will miss their fridge, the notion of having my own place again is very nice. No longer will I be confined to my room like a moody teenager, unless of course Tom insists on wandering around the house in his yellow y-fronts, in which case I may have to for my own health and safety.

9.30am we get the keys tomorrow and from then on I will be back in the world of having to remember to buy food, not drinking so I can pay the gas bill and spending long hours doing little else but watching zombie films and my Mysterious Cities of Gold box set. Joy. Sheer joy. Now to work out just how to put my weights in the same box as as my favourite Mr Scruff mugs....