I’m trying to move house; so are more than one pair of friends. We spend a lot of time trying to get on the insurance for each others’ cars, because some can fit a sideboard, and others can’t fit a handbag. We swap recommendations for things like secondhand book exchangers, and avoid talking about fond memories of the home about to be departed, concentrating on all the brilliant things there are to be said about new pastures. The main thing we don’t talk about is that none of us know how to do anything and that all of us are hoarders.
There’s a reason not to know the big stuff – how to paint a skirting board, how to mend a bannister spindle – never doing a thing without landing in a place of pure ignorance. Probably if any of us were 25, we’d be no worse at painting than any other 25-year-old.
