By any measure, things are messy at the moment. There is, I think I failed to mention before, no kitchen. Where the kitchen was is full of wood, sawn, unfinished, stacked up in inconvenient piles that are blocking off access to everything up to and including cutlery. The things the kitchen contained are now piled up in the sitting room, provocatively looking far more bulky than the new cupboards into which they will allegedly fit.
All over the house, in fact, there are piles of things halfway sorted. There are piles of my clothes on the floor where I am writing now, bustled up against my feet, halfway sorted. There are the football tops I recklessly decided it was my turn to wash last Sunday.
Books, too. Small piles of them have started springing up around the place, and I am only now realising that this means despite having five full height bookcases in the house (and, I shudder to think, boxes of books loading up the roof), I have yet again run out of space for books. On top of all this, the consignment of film posters and photographic collages have finally come back framed. I thought getting them framed was the hard part. It was not. The hard part is agreeing where they should all be hung. Right now I am looking at the sumptuous poster of La Dolce Vita that will take pride of place. Somewhere.
Yet the pictures too remain half sorted. I am forced to acknowledge something that any cynical mathematician would tell you. There is no such thing as half sorted. Things may tend increasingly over time to being sorted (or, of course, they may not), but alway, inevitably, until that point they remain unsorted. Let those who think that this is a bad thing continue to think so. For myself, I am enjoying the slow, glutinous process of things happening at their own ineluctable pace.