Books are so dang heavy

Today has been one of those rare days where both Pete and I have a day without the demands of clients, friends, or other business. We both slept in, had a late breakfast, and have taken to the house like some sort of organisational weirdos. Steps towards living better, and also progress in preparing to move house have been made. And strangely, we’ve not fought or argued at all. I don’t even know us, man.

We’ve both done some tasks in the kitchen, and he has mercilessly attacked our food stores and cupboards. If I weren’t so excited to be moving, I’d almost want to keep living here, it’s that good. But, onward and upward we go, and the steps taken today will transfer nicely within a different set of walls.

I’ve started packing infrequently referenced books, and it’s only when moving house that I regret my love of big, heavy, quality-bound art books. They are so dang heavy. I mean, that’s half their appeal, of course; the tactile pleasantness, the smooth paper, the quirky hardback covers, but fuck me they are a chore when moving house. Now, who was it that said they’d help me move? Anyone? Do I hear crickets?