It’s all approximately the eve but 24 December is not the only day loaded with anticipationHappy Christmas Eve. glad train-ride-of-pain. glad sleeping-on-a-sofabed-with-no-idea-how-to-turn-the-epileptic-fairylights-off. glad being-spoken-to-like-a-six-year-old-again. glad getting-slightly-pissed-in-a-pub-with-people-you-grew-up-with-but-occupy-no-idea-what-their-wives-are-called. glad quickly-buying-bathbombs-at-dusk. glad nostalgia. glad all of this. There should be more opportunities to celebrate an eve,I reckon. The smooth before.
Moving House Eve. There you sit with your fish and chips in paper, a mug of squash, or your boxes. Your boxes. There are six whole years inside these boxes,sorted by room. Sharp memories wrapped carefully in paper, and books heavier than the stories in them. Why are you crying over a lost HDMI cable? Why does a binbag of bedding make you feel so small? You always forget how moving, or moving is.
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Source: guardian.co.uk