I have this day bade farewell, adieu, so long and thanks for all the fish to much more than nine tenths of my worldly goods. Gone, done with, sold for a purse of farthings to two chaps with a pantechnicon, to two chaps who could barely contain their farts of glee as we played negotiation-tennis over an imaginary net.
I am moving onto a narrowboat. Sometime soonish.
I didn’t sell my books. I am sorting through those. A generously slack handful will remain with me.
My CD collection has been decanted into some nifty DJ-style al-yoo-min-ee-um cases, reducing its footprint to a mere shadow of its former shelf-space.
Family photographs have been set aside, as have a few items of memorabilia.
I’ve kept a smidgen of the household Spode, two of my least-flamboyant candelabra, a soupçon of the itemus generalis domesticus, some tools and – for which you will be grateful – all of my wardrobe, including the underwear.
Oh – and my typewriter, I’ve kept my typewriter. No sense in being a writer sitting on a canal-boat unless I can bang away at a clapped-out old typewriter each day as I watch the world drift past, or as I drift past the world.
Note to self: do a spot of revision on tying knots, to prevent unwanted drifting.
I won’t be just moored up in one place, it is my intention to explore every inch of the network that I can get to. Expect one or two “boatish” posts here.
The task now is to take Occam’s Razor once again to the remaining tenth, and to reduce it by another nine-tenths.
My suspicion is that this final reduction will be harder than the initial reduction!
I won’t quite walk away with a suitcase in each hand, but it won’t be far off that as I dance a jolly jig towards the horizon. One tenth of one tenth of what I previously thought necessary to civilised living will come with me.
Let the boat search begin.
Yep indeedy, I don’t yet have a boat. Oops.
Still, a new episode of “Hutson” awaits, as soon as I find one!
Another complete re-write of the series in fact.
A new story on something about 57′ long and 6′ 10″ wide. Perennially lost somewhere on England’s two-thousand miles of canals. Rushing about at two miles per hour. A tramp upon the water. A traveller without wheels. Once more unto the topmost high-diving board. Shut your eyes, Hutson, and leap off…
Tally ruddy ho, eh?