The biggest of adventures start with boring logistics.
Here are our things stacked at the bottom of our Brixton flats,
ready to be carted into a van and then some obscure shipping container. It was
breath-taking how fast the removal guys turned assorted nicknacks, tables, chairs,
treasured possessions, golf clubs even into an anonymous row of boxes.
At risk of sounding horribly twee, moving abroad has made me
realise quite how much stuff you
accumulate, even by the age of 27. This load is only half of what we shipped;
which was only half the amount we stored; which was only half the amount we sold
or chucked away. Insert some gap-yeary-sounding tosh about the value of things or
consumerism here…
The lobby in which I will next see these boxes will be very
different to the one they are pictured in here:
- Freshly painted walls against walls that have seen
one coat of paint (because Prince Edward came to visit!) since 1970-something.
-
A reception that last saw door staff in the
1940s when the block was owned by Jewish emigres, versus a block that has 24
hour concierge.
-
The normally polite, sometimes threatening,
always weed-smoking youths hanging in the hallway, against a hallway in which
loitering would probably result in instant arrest.
Brixton, Brixton – I do love you really, and will miss you.
But I’d be a liar if reflections like this don’t make me feel grateful to be
leaving for a little while…
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