The inside of my head sounds like the Psycho shower music at the moment. It's six days till the move and although everything is theoretically on schedule, in practice it's dust, sweat, boxes, tripping over boxes, not being able to find my Stanley knife, and trying to pack for a business trip. Because I've chosen to move in a week where I'm out of the country for two days. That was clever.
I'd say the packing is about 85% done now, although downstairs resembles a dustbunny and hairball convention. With added recycling bags of books I am chucking overboard to prevent sinking. There is something very satisfying about throwing away India Knight novels.
As I was explaining to lovely S (who bought me lovely brunch today to send me on my way) I feel about my apartment and indeed about Brussels the way you do when you are going out with someone, and you think you are going to love them, and you try to fall in love but it doesn't quite work, and then you start seeing the cracks, and smell the leak in the cellar, and then they run off with your jewellery.
There's a list on a constant loop playing slightly under the shower music. EE! EE! EE! get the money out for the movers EE! EE! EE! phone Electrabel EE! EE! EE! pay first month's rent EE! EE! EE! boxes boxes boxes bring home empty boxes from work EE! EE! EE! and so on, and so forth.
And that's actually the closest I've come to writing a list. Perhaps I should actually write a list.