Bearing in mind that since the late nineteen-fifties I’ve moved from the Northern to the Southern Hemispheres, and back four times so far, I’ve learnt how not to become attached to stuff. Especially the kind you can always replace at your new destination.
Unlike myself, most people aspire to owning their own homes raising a family and acquiring life’s bric-a-brac along the way. Look in most garages, garden sheds and in the loft and you will be confronted with a pyromaniacs dream. Unwanted sofas, that sneaked photo of prim and proper aunt Maud when she wasn’t looking, showing her Edwardian style knickers tucked into the back of her cotton summer dress at the beach, failed do-it-yourself projects, dust laden cobwebs, wasp or hornet nests, pieces of string and dozens of labelled boxes, all sharing the same space as wiring, exposed here or there thanks to mice gnawing on the…
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