Diary

Moving Home

29 March 2008 | Diary

Minimalism, you say? Hah! I wrote the book on minimalism! And ‘minimal’ was the interest I received from publishers. Hardcore.

In hindsight, I should really get around to reading the book I wrote. In the process of moving home, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve never owned quite so much stuff.

There’s no paradox here. I’m a minimalist with a lot of stuff. Wanna make something of it? Never heard of a paedophile dating adults? Astronauts like to spend time underground too, you know.

“The minimalist movement wants YOU!
Have you got the stuff?”

Seven large boxes now squat in the middle of my living room, packed with my precious stuff and ready to travel. I’m happy to say that almost all of it is in the form of books, records or videos. No ‘objects’. No ‘keepsakes’. No ‘kipple’. Definitely a minimalist approach to having a lot of stuff.

Boxes aside, I’ve certainly made efforts to travel light. I’ve even trimmed my toenails.

While packing the remaining copies of New Escapologist magazines, I accidentally scratch my thumb on a protruding staple. Such shoddy craftsmanship. Hard to believe people have been paying £3.50 per unit for this tat. But let us remind ourselves of the magazine’s motto:

Molior quisquiliae, tenor sublimis
(“Construction shit, contents sublime”).

It was bad timing though. Functioning thumbs are vital to the packing process. That’s why the lower primates and Japanese POWs travel so light.

It crossed my mind that I should smear some thumb blood onto one of the magazine covers. The buyer of this copy would have something even better than a signed edition. Haemoglobin of the editor would add literally pence to the cover price.

But then: that’s the sort of thing a psychopath would do, isn’t it?

Flashback to the day spent stapling the magazines together:

I had stolen a stapler from my office. When it refuses to bind the forty top-notch New Escapologist pages with the same enthusiasm as it used to staple financial reports in its former life, I say to it:

“I’m regretting promoting you.”

Talking to inanimate objects: something else psychopaths do.

The only things left to pack are my clown paintings and the transcriptions of those interviews I did with Jesus for BBC1.

Excuse me. I’m just going outside to strangle the neighbour’s dog. I’m moving house so they’ll never catch me.



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