boxing clever

Our moving company's logo turns out to be a black cat in profile, so the children, cat lovers all, are happier about their belongings going into the boxes than they might have been otherwise. The movers are lovely men, which is a mercy, as otherwise I would be inclined to hate them. They've transformed our home into a warehouse. It's industrial, and processed, and alienating. (Alienating us, but preparing to welcome its new inhabitants. Damn them.) Everything is 'lasts': last dinner, last sleepover guest, last bath, last night. Tomorrow we leave. Funny, but now that our possessions are just a series of boxes, I don't really want them any more. I know that suggests a lack of object permanence in my psychological make-up but it's true: I don't care what's inside the cardboard.