Arrivals

The British Library organises its books by size, which is what I attempt to do when I start packing on a Tuesday night. By box number three, I’m already throwing Septology and Heartburn together without even checking the spine or trim.

I wrap bottles and knick-knacks around scarves to protect them. The wooden pink river dolphin from my godmother’s restaurant. My granddad’s big seashell, which my mum posted to me so that I could use it in a short film I made in 2013. It took me so long to track the box that I asked her not to attempt to send me things anymore.

I have small strips of bubble wrap that I use around delicate objects. It reminds me of my grandma, who liked to pop them.

I packed a bag of rice with my cookbooks because it made sense at the time.

‘I don’t have much,’ I tell everyone, but I have been methodically packing for the past three days. I suppose it’s relative, how much one has. I have no kitchenware.

I have written so many essays about my living situation that, like with my houses, I have almost lost count of them. When I published my essay Nine Lives, the Editor wished I were in my forever home, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I knew it wasn’t so.

House number 12 is just around the corner, and I am feeling confident because Jupiter is entering my sign in July. I don’t actually know what it means, but a friend said it is a good thing.

Home and death are my ‘themes,’ friends joke, and I can’t disagree. These concepts orbit my head most days; they represent shifts, griefs, but also strength.

I kept cardboard boxes from my last move under my bed, and I wonder if and when I will get rid of them.

I retape them, using the smooth surfaces that will better maintain their structure before they are flat-packed again. I look at the old dusty brown tape glued to the sides, hanging on for dear life. If it can do it, so can I.

I have notes of all the bits and bobs I might forget, the prints, the toiletries, my life is made of lists and alarms with objects and commands, ‘don’t forget your bike in the shed.’

Moves can feel like leaving or arriving, the only time when it felt like both was when I left home.

I heard people wonder if death feels like that; if it does, I’ll be prepared - and I hope they have enough bubble wrap.