I’ve just moved into a new flat and enjoyed that backbreaking resentment borne of transporting hundreds of books in a mish-mash collection of boxes common to bibliophiles the world over. Really I want all my books to stretch their spines and flutter after me wherever I roam, like musty but expansive butterflies. Failing that, I’d like someone else to move them all for me please (thanks to everyone who did lend a hand!).

But transporting the trusty tomes from one residence to another is merely the beginning of my worries. The new flat has substantially fewer book-bearing pieces of furniture than I’ve become accustomed to. Unfortunately, the new flat is also considerably more expensive than the old one so I can’t indulge in a spending-spree where I gleefully choose graceful new bedding for my bound buddies. Instead I’ve a pile of over ten, bashed, cardboard boxes in the corner of my room. I can feel my books glowering at me right through the brown tape I used to seal them in.

Two bookcases survived the move however, and on the first day I did have the chance to enjoy a little of the meditative pleasure of racking up my favourites and creating a little order amidst the chaos of all of my other, shoddily packed, possessions.

Until the rest of my books are unpacked I won’t feel at home so hopefully next pay day will provide me with enough cash to rectify the situation – even if it does mean an Ikea job. On the bright side, my new room does have a massive window and a nook perfect for my desk. Hopefully that means I’ll get plenty of writing (as well as reading) done here.