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I have to move.

Like, within days.

I've found a place to move into -- which I don't like much, but that's how these things go -- so it's just a case of drumming up some help and getting it done. And then, heigh-ho, I'll be living out of boxes again.

It has something to do with my lightfooted youth that I don't like or trust new places. Moving house, even if it's not across an ocean, causes what my friend Steve used to call "object frenzy". I start panicking, thinking that once again I need to know where every single thing is that I own, so I can make sure it's boxed, logged, labeled, weighed, and sent with desperate optimism via surface mail. Or thrown loosely in the back of a Citroën 2CV while I follow on the back of somebody's motorcycle.