not clown porn

And we're back from five days at our remote location. Home to domestic bliss -- or the amount of bliss you can get when moving day is approaching and your teenage daughter is in charge. (At the end of the month I will be changing headquarters, from my charming slanted unheated house on a hill to a slightly less quaint but more practical dwelling in town.) Thea has been moving some things in my absence. And by things I mean the contents of her bedroom and the bathroom, and the couch and TV. Things that matter to her. She picked me up at the train station, drove me home and disappeared with the car, leaving me towel-less, pillow-less, and unable to sit down in the living room. Fortunately I had lots of unpacking and laundry to do. And putting things in boxes. Don't forget that. An important part of moving. I am a winnower (there's a speech impediment joke here, but my ex-wife is in good health and I am too politically correct to stoop) which means that my book collection gets fined down every time I move. I tend to hang onto unread classics, and chuck detective stories. (There's a copy of Romola that I will take to my grave, I think.) I'll put off buying the new Peter Robinson until I've moved in. I think that's all for now. Next time: either the difference between tidy and clean, or clown porn.