Packing Pandora's Box.

I have moved house countless times in my life. So familiar is the task of packing and unpacking boxes and bags that l think l could take it up as a profession. Indeed, l would not be surprised to hear that the staff at the local supermarket think l have developed some kind of cardboard fetish, or that l am attempting to reconstruct the Eiffel Tower in my back garden. My house is starting to resemble either an illegal sweat shop, or the hovel of a sculptor. The boxes may even be starting to reproduce.

Some of these house moves have been ones of joy, and others have been performed under duress and amidst floods of tears. Some have involved a convoy of cars filled to the brim with boxes, some with merely a suitcase and a toothbrush.

All have had their moments. The family cat escaping from its basket in the front of the car and scaring my mother out of her wits. Swinging a van sharply around a tight corner to hear a mirror smashing against a set of drawers which consequently meant l was picking shards of glass out of my knickers for weeks. Trying to pass off the 'buzzing' sound in one box to a friend as an electric toothbrush, which was awkward and embarrassing for us both.

The impending move is bitter sweet. Packing away objects that were part of a different existence. Re-reading old letters. Sorting through books and films that provoked week long discussions. Knowing that these memories may never be unpacked. The joy of treasured moments, and the sadness of the loss.

However. There is often a moment when, sifting through your belongings, you re-discover a long lost love.

Turn up the volume. Grab some bubble wrap. Leap about in your slippers. Enjoy.