Moving back in has been hard. Not for all the usual hate your family reasons that everyone else seems to use but simply because I’ve run out of space for my books. Great stacks of them roam the floor of my room causing consternation for the kittens and forcing me to step delicately unless the vibrations cause them to topple in a scale model of downtown earthquake disaster.

You see I’m now trapped in the bibliophile version of High Fidelity, organising my library by genre and then alphebatised within that genre. Genres are then ranked by influence on each other, preferably with as much out of band metadata as I can get my hands on. Only by clearing away the last vesiges of other lives (like old schoolwork, textbooks etc.) can I create enough space to maintain my complete collection of Alistair McLean pulp thrillers and have space for modernist masters (Woolf, Joyce, Thomas, Bulgakov, controversialy here instead of in Russian literature).

It really is most relaxing.