We’re in that stage of the move where we’re enjoying the new space but wish it wasn’t littered with boxes. Navigating the place still feels a bit like writing with my left hand, and I haven’t reached for the right cupboard in 10 days. We were in our last flat four years and it was only last week that I realised where the pizza cutter went. It’s lost now, as are several very important objects, documents and wires which I can remember putting somewhere, but might as well have thrown directly into the sun.
There’s something fantastically, almost ecstatically, frustrating about knowing everything I own is here in front of me, and yet discover that your mental Rolodex only extends to the last eight things you touched. Why did I think that I, a man who routinely forgets what day of the week it is, and twice last year used the light on his phone to help him find his phone, would suddenly have the visual memory of a savant when it comes to the vast clutter that encompasses his life?
