Paradise Regained, Another Country Revisited and A Little of Myself Lost, Again

On Wednesday last I spent almost ten hours driving a Ford Transit Luton to Berwick-upon-Tweed and back to Lytham St Annes, three hours loading it single-handedly, including a sofa and some bulky, though not heavy, shelving units, and two hours unloading it, with the help of Mrs Gruff (Why is it always easier to do anything and everything without a woman's help?). I've spent the two days since assembling the Ikea flat packed storage that I was certain was by now warped and rotting, having lain in store for more than four years, at a cost of more than £3,000.00, and I am unusually happy, almost ecstatically so. Why? Because I have my belongings; my books, my essays, my floppy discs, my tapes, my CDs, my LPs etc, about me again, all in perfect condition, and I feel human again, that's why.

Searching for something at YouTube I came across this:



Which evokes two very poignant memories and reminds me, by a convoluted extension, that on finally removing myself from Northumberland I have cut the last remaining link with that place.

Addendum: Searching further I came across this, which sent shivers up or down or out of my spine:




LOL @ 'that famous book by Nabokov': I was reading that book at the time and Nabokov is one of my most liked authors. Given the importance of the events then current how could I forget the song?

Addendum (written 25/12/23):  Seven years after taking the IKEA units out of storage I had again to put them in  store, unfortunately into a shipping container kept outdoors, where, after three years and two lockdowns, I found they had warped.  However, instead of rotting the composite panels had fallen apart and the units collapsed as the glues failed due to the freezing and heating of the water that had puddled inside the container from holes that had rusted through the roof.  By coincidence, the owners of the storage site, a boatyard on the south coast, sold the place, to a group of East Europeans,  just as we gave notice that we were giving it up.  Ten years after writing, above, of my joy at discovering them unsullied I had to throw the pieces of wood onto the pile of scrap timber at Lowestoft Recycling Centre, just one of many many disappointments. 

Three years storage of various items, including a lot of boat stuff, in that rusty container cost me more than £5,000.00.  Thankfully, apart from some superficial but disfiguring damage to some of my books, most of my things were more or less all right.  No wonder I have no money.