move

On Friday it was finally time to move. Well I wasn’t going anywhere yet but my possessions were. What a shock and horror that mission was. I had too much stuff. Way way too much stuff. In the process of packing I found things I did not know I owned. I also found out that I own 44 hangers. A rather large number for someone who own five shirts.

Despite the utter desperation I had landed myself in, earlier, all boxes were full and sealed by Friday morning. Excellent. This was especially important since we had a farewell lunch planned with the girls.

After a busy morning of faxing papers for my new place in London I sat down with the girls and a bottle of champagne. Got some food and a bottle of red wine. We were in Paris after all. And a bit more champagne.

I had to rush home. In a slight state of inebriation I got changed into scruffy moving clothes and started running boxes down six flights of stairs. And as it was, everything was waiting, next to the door when the moving van parked on the road. More carrying.

When my meagre possessions were in the back of the van we hopped on to the seats and drove of to my flatmates cave. Well it was not really her cave but a cave where he things were. More carrying. This time up the stairs.

My head started to feel less cloudy as we went on.

Boxes. More boxes. Even more boxes. No hangers. But more boxes.

I felt less bad.

Job well done.

Dinner time.

Given that I had barely recovered from my rather copious and extremely boozy lunch I decided to join the group that was meeting up for food in a nice Madagascar restaurant, not far away from where I lived. And one I had never been to.

The food was good and the wine was plenty.

I returned home late. Very late. To an empty apartment.

How could I leave Paris?

Paris is home.