Where it started

Over the past couple of months, I’ve been busy tidying, reorganising and downsizing. I’ve got a garage full of boxes and other paraphernalia I’ve wanted to consolidate, and slowly I’ve whittled it down.

I’ve replaced some things with smaller, lighter versions – my old dining table that seated 8-10 has been replaced by a table seating 4-6, for example, and the old table sold. I did similar with a desk. Other things have been sold off – a bedside table, a punching bag I barely used, other odds and sods.

I’ve emptied about a dozen boxes. About 7 boxes of books have been relocated into bookcases. Other boxes, I’ve reviewed and rid myself of stuff I didn’t need anymore, rehousing what remained into fewer boxes. Other stuff – mainly dining-related – I’ve placed where it belongs, into the buffet unit (though the buffet unit sits in my office because there’s no room for it elsewhere).

Some stuff I have to keep but in storage. I’m looking to shift those things from random boxes into more permanent and accessible storage solutions. For example, I’ve got a bunch of hand-written journals covering about 20 years preceding this blog. Yep, there’s more.

I’ve shifted them from a tatty old box into a proper container with a lid that I’ll label. I’ll be doing the same for other things. By the end of this process, I hope not to have anything extraneous and a garage I can navigate.

Regarding the journals, some of the stuff in them is cringeworthy. I started writing when I was about 19, and it has a lot of callow stuff. I was a typical boy in a lot of ways. I had extravagant expectations and was no stranger to hyperbole. There are bits in there describing – in excruciating detail – my first experiences of love and a regular litany of lustful goings on. There are also detailed descriptions of sporting events I attended or watched.

Occasionally, there are reflective sections and parts where I comment, much as I do these days, though my thinking wasn’t as developed or sophisticated then.

I can’t bring myself to read much of it, though I’ll probably get around to it one day. Otherwise, it’s rich and embarrassing material for any biographer to latch onto. Oh, well, to get here, you have to go through that first. It’s the journey.

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