We're nearly there. And I can't tell you (well, I can), how fed up I am of the whole moving process, which has consumed my life for the last two weeks. I am fed up of packing boxes, fed up of talking to removal men, fed up of talking to estate agents, fed up of worrying whether I'm going to have enough money for the next month after the move has finished eating 90% of my wages, fed up of cleaning this place in a vain attempt to get my deposit back from my present landlord, fed up of waking up every morning wondering how close I am now to the day of the move. It was frightening when I first heard I had to get out, then it was exciting when I found somewhere, now even the fear and the stress associated with the upheaval are stupefyingly boring. I feel like Bob Dylan in the penultimate sequence of the Scorcese movie, when he's being interviewed by a journalist in a hotel room and he's rocking back and forth in repressed irritation, distress, neurasthenia, loneliness, misanthropy, massaging his temples, talking over the bemused and rather nervous interviewer: "I don't want to go Italy no more. I just want to go home. You know what home is??"
Except it sometimes feels like my home is in a place that isn't there anymore, among people who disappeared a long time ago.