So much for the new leaf

The unpacking continues. To say it continues apace would be an outright lie, but I emptied another couple of bags/boxes over the weekend. Granted I emptied one bag of clothes straight onto the side of the bed I don't sleep on and the pile is still lying there (another reason to add to my "Why Be Single" list), but the point is, I could put away another box!

I took a little break from the slog on Saturday and headed to that bastion of self-assembly, Ikea, for some bits and pieces as the quest for a vaguely grown-up pad continues. I had in mind some beautiful, perhaps oak, pieces (why I thought Ikea was a good idea, I'm not sure - maybe it was getting up so early on a Saturday morning for the gasman that did me in), but ended up, predictably, with stuff that I will end up either dumping or giving to Crossroads when/if I leave the Fragrant Harbour.

So, purchases ("home improvements" are not on the list of forbidden buys during my August of monetary restraint) comprise thus: one 6-foot bookshelf (cheap, cheap thing), one chest of (or "chester" as I insisted it was spelled until I was eight) drawers (ditto) and then hardier kind-of bookshelf that can go upright or, as I THINK I'll do, on its side, forming a low unit, which, in theory, will go by the sitting room windowsill.

After lugging home the cheap shelf (I hate waiting for deliveries, and I had to wait for the other two items until this week anyway), I was bruised, tired, and in no mood to deal with anything requiring a screwdriver that didn't involve vodka.

But Sunday was the day I wielded tools and put together my bookshelf. And loaded it up. Boy, I have a lot of literature. And nonsense printed and bound and calling themselves books. I already had one 6-foot bookshelf and had already filled it. I read a lot, I'll admit, but looking at my shelves makes me question my shopping habits. Since the discovery, a year or so ago, of a book warehouse in the next building to my office, I've bought about 100 books. It's fabulous - I can buy all these brand-new books for next-to-nothing and read to my heart's content. And if it's rubbish, it only cost me $10 or $20. But it does mean, even with the number I've lent or given away, I still have STACKS of books.

I know there are a number of second-hand bookstores in town, and I know there are charities that are always eager to receive stocks - but the sad truth is, I like to have books. Old, new, it doesn't matter. There's something really satisfying about a full bookshelf that no other possessions can match. Something about all the knowledge, laughter, opinions, tears, frustration, history sitting on my shelf gives me a buzz. And revisiting old favourites makes me happy - the number of times I've read Pride & Prejudice, The Wonderful Adventures of Henry Sugar and Bridget Jones' Diary is possibly embarrassing, but you've got to do what makes you happy sometimes. As long as it doesn't hurt or inconvenience others.

So I've decided, apart from the utter trash, or somewhat depressing tomes, or pointless novels, I'm hanging onto the lot. I'll happily lend or give people stuff - it's all about sharing the joy of reading – but I don't want to get bogged down in owning too much stuff - but only when it comes to books!

Besides, if I'm ever going to open my bakery-cum-cafe-cum-seocondhand-bookshop, I'll need some stocks to start it going...