This is not the best of days. It's half past seven at night, and I am probably less than halfway through the world's most depressing ambition: to clear a room known only as The Swamp.
I'm moving home - slightly involuntarily* - and gain access to the new property on Saturday morning, so obviously the sooner the various dampened fragments of my life are either boxed or disposed of the better. But many of them, the particularly damp ones, are hiding in a strange basement room - The Swamp. It is a desolation, a cube of cracks and flakes and drooping webs, of high rise slugs and a vague sensation of something tickling your neck. It is not a holiday destination, and as a day trip it sucks.
Still, I have a few hours to go, and if all that room is clear of the detritus of my existence by bedtime, I shall sleep soundly. As long as I haven't just moved it all onto my bed.
S.
* I decided to play hard-ball with my landlord over a 12% rent rise. Like killing Mandy Patinkin's father, beeg mistake.
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