Spring definitely sprung in the Crawford house today. Lots of cleaning, moving furniture and throwing away to make space for the summer. It was lovely. And even nicer to sit down with my cuppa at the end of it (except it's not the end, there's still a few more boxes to be stored or taken to the charity shop).
Everything was going so well, until I found myself face to face with my book shelves: off the books came, divided into three piles. The first to keep out for continual reading, the second to be stored (sob!) in the loft for the forseeable future and the third to be taken to the charity shop...
And that's where the system failed, completely. Everything else was divided into the same three piles, but I couldn't - never, never, ever - even think about parting with any of the books. Even the ones I've never been keen on (The Lovely Bones and Oryx and Crake particularly were in my hand, ready to be thrown onto the charity pile but ended up in the loft box).
Why? Because books are so much more than the stories they tell. They are the emotions you felt, the holiday you were on, the glass of wine you were drinking, the sound of the rain, the flu you were suffering. As I flicked through the pages, I could smell these things; and longed to read them all again, at once. But, at least half had to be packed up, such is the lack of space I'm suffering at the moment. I'm already looking forward to the day they all come back out and I get to read them all again.