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| If you can save any of them, my books can be found at Oxfam, Albany Road, Cardiff. |
I am moved.
Both in the literal, location-swapping sense and in the lesser used (by me)
"Jimminy-H-Cricket What Have I Done?!" emotional meaning.
Gone is the old, mouldy and crumbling but generously proportioned flat, replete with ample bookshelves and free-standing storage facilities plus laundry room and three (count 'em, three!) toilets. Our new abode is the snug, warm, dry conveniently located two bed terraced house of our dreams, with one minor** drawback - no space for our combined collected (and also slightly mouldy) reading history.
I clearly hadn't thought this through. When packing books into boxes (many, many boxes) we paid no heed to the relative floor spaces of future and erstwhile dwellings, including whether there would actually be enough space to unload the boxes, let alone unpack them. Once the move was under way, it quickly became apparent that once the furniture was in place, boxes of books would not fit. Not that many anyway. Therefore, I spent a very cold and miserable evening in the back of the transit opening boxes and dividing books into discrete piles:
2) Yet to read (try to accommodate)
3) Easily replaced (to re-buy once space allows)
4) Rubbish (off to the Charity shop!)
5) Advanced proofs (not for resale or distribution)
The horror etc.
It transpires that only 1 in 7 books made it into piles one and two, a state of affairs which took me by surprise. I had expected it to be much, much more difficult to select books that I would not keep, and indeed, piles three and four were growing alarmingly quickly. Pile five was also on the colossal side.
In fact, once the task was done, I felt a strange kind of relief bordering on the cathartic. My wife was the same once she wielded Occam's Razor on her collection. In the end we managed to accommodate our entire remaining combined collection in two wall alcoves in our downstairs living/dining rooms (floor to ceiling naturally). What the fuck we do with new books is a question I will not entertain until it arises (probably in about 30 minutes time when I accidentally browse some of my favourite independent book retailers' websites).
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| Zombie sex abounds. |
So, if you're near Oxfam on Albany Road in Cardiff, it might be worth your while to pop in and see if they actually put my near complete Cartlon Mellick III collection on sale. I can confidently predict that Baby Jesus Butt Plug might be a difficult sale in a Christian charity shop. Incidentally, if you pick up anything with a dedication "To Gareth", I would also like to apologise if the author has followed it up with any personalised abuse. Or, in the case of Rolf Harris, a Rolf-a-roo.
Lastly, I am left only to say that normal service will resume shortly. As predicted my original time frame was overly ambitious, and it is likely that Christmas will pass before the next review appears. Thank you for accepting my hiatus and coming back to read more. You will not**** be disappointed.
*NB The post title has absolutely
nothing to do with the album Triumphant
Return from the Christian metal band Whitecross, released on January 31,
1989 which reached #13 on Billboard's Top Contemporary Christian Albums
chart and also won a Dove Award for Hard Music Album of the Year
for 1989. I have no time for Christian metal.
**Only
minor if I were to follow my own advice, and that of the Bible*** in so far as
it's time to put away childish things - which the informed reader will clearly
understand means MAJOR
***Sorry
to any secular readers for the continued Christian references. They are
accidental and in no way represent my own views on spirituality and organised
religion, which are mired in a gleeful and sadistic ignorance. As Father Jack
might say, "That would be an ecumenical matter."
****
[INSERT PREDICTABLE SELF-DEPRECATING JOKE HERE]
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