South Park Self

with his name written clearly on each

My goods and chattels resulted in rather a lot more than forty-two boxes, all carefully packed; there were the 25 large eco-boxes, and the 15 cardboard boxes the EL acquired from Merrypak, and the 10 from Tracy, plus another three or four random ones from jo&stv, and in the end all the food went into shopping bags because I had denuded the immediate social landscape of boxen of any kind. My more-than-42 boxes, all carefully packed, have their contents written clearly on each, or more accurately scribbled hurriedly in koki - the inscriptions read things like "BOOKS - SF", or "BOOKS - END OF PASSAGE", or "COOKBOOKS", or, more unhelpfully, just "BOOKS". Because the packing-up process was assisted by my standard array of slightly insane friends, several of these boxes have now taken additional inscriptions randomly to themselves. They read, variously:

  • DVD RAYS. BLU DISKS. PLEASURES, GUILTY.
  • BOOKS FROM END OF PASSAGE AT THE END OF THE OCEAN.
  • DVDs - SERIES - SHINY!
  • BOOKS - PASSAGE - VAMPIRE FANGS. (That one possibly even relates to the contents).
  • BOOKS - PASSAGE - RABBI HATS. (I have no bloody idea).
  • BOOKS - PASSAGE - HOUSE/TECHNO/TRANCE. (That definitely doesn't relate to the contents).
  • BOOKS - PASSAGE - DRAGON SCALES. (Possibly also topical).
  • BOOKS - PASSAGE - CHRISTIAN BOOKS. (That's either wanton provocation, or contains Narnia).
  • BOOK'S, DVD's AND BLU-RAY's, O MY!
  • COOKBOOK'S. (These last two are definitely wanton provocation. One of them has an additional inscription of APOSTROPHES on the opposite corner, just to underscore the point).

Even if he hadn't proudly drawn my attention to his efforts, my money would have been on Stv as the perpetrator. No innocent bit of paper is safe from his annotation.

The eco-boxes are now unpacked, leaving me with 20-odd cardboard boxes full of books, DVDs and CDs. I cannot unpack them because three of my bookshelves are not yet bolted to the wall. I cannot bolt them because the corner where I want to put them contains an alarm sensor, which they would block. ADT are proving a broken reed in the department of doing anything about installing a radio transmitter, so I haven't yet been able to ask them to move the sensor owing to their complete non-appearance and lack of communication. For want of an ADT response the whole thing snarls up. Telkom did actually arrive today to activate what turns out to be a normal phone line. They are still out of ADSL ports. They will install more in October. There are apparently 80 people waiting for ports in the area, so I'm very far down the list. In the interim I have scored a 3G dongle from a kindly Claire, and have home internet with minimal fuss beyond having to buy a data bundle for it via my cellphone because I didn't have internet. I have used my cellphone more in the last two weeks than I have in the last five years together.

The house is now properly furnished with a sofa and dining room table and chairs, and rejoices in a Hobbit, who is in a severe and querulous snit about being moved, and rendered last night hideous with a campaign of whinging throughout the small hours, interspersed with climbing on me in a marked manner. He does not find the accommodations to his taste, and wishes moreover to promenade in the garden, which he can't, because he'll infallibly make tracks for Rondebosch if I let him out.

The house also has a mountain just outside its front door.

Photo0039

It's also mine, and mine alone (except for Hobbit, who admittedly takes up a certain amount of space). I'm liking this feeling.

The subject line is, of course, quoting "The Hunting of the Snark". For some reason the stanzas about poor Thingamajig have been the ones I've always remembered from the poem, going back to fairly early childhood. I miss teaching the Snark. Nonsense poetry is a weirdly good vehicle for unwrapping semiotic theory.
Re: something for you
Awww, wols! that's a lovely picture, thank you! although I've been watching enough Sherlock that a photographer called Richard Brooks makes me vaguely uneasy...