Little things…

I DON’T know who it was that first came up with the hideous word ‘relocating’ to mean ‘moving house’, but I imagine it was an American. The yanks have a tendency to prefer more syllables; it makes them feel better educated I imagine.

Now that I am, almost, settled in my new home I find visiting the old one, which is being mothballed, rather pleasant. There are many things I miss: the space, the view, even the pool, although this summer has had all to short a stay.

Looking around at the start of this adventure I saw that much was to be done. More to the point much was to be done away with. This became an eminence grise, a dull presence somewhere at the back of the mind. Some people, in fact many of us I suspect, are reluctant to throw anything away. You never know when you might need it, etc.

So I began with the books destined for the South Coast Hospice, whose bookshop is gradually being stocked with some treasures. It was at about this time that the problems started. I picked an elegantly printed, slim volume of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. The inner voice said, reproachfully, you are not really going to throw that away, are you? It was as though I was throwing away my dog.

I took hold of myself and put the book in the box. And then took it out again, rather like Oscar Wilde I think it was, who spent a whole morning putting in a comma and the whole afternoon taking it out again.

Eventually about ten boxes were full. I learnt many years ago that whisky cases are a good shape and easy to carry, and the average book or two weighs something similar to a bottle of whisky. Of course if you can’t find any whisky cases you can always buy a full one and drink the contents. This is guaranteed to make the choosing of the doomed books even more difficult.

The cookery books, a small but interesting collection, were a different matter altogether. I had a special built in bookcase for this old friend, some of whom, like Elizabeth David, MFK Fisher, Richard Olney and Jane Grigson I read over and over again.

When it came to my beloved encyclopaedia the harsh light of reality was somewhat startling.

I bought my Macmillan encyclopaedia at about the time I bought my two-volume Shorter Oxford. They both came from Exclusive Books in Hill brow in the 1970s. There is no problem with the dictionary, but the 22 volumes of the Macmillan caused some alarm.

Who, in this day and age, would want such a thing? Pupils at school and students at college have nowhere to put such a thing and wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. All has been swept away by the ubiquitous Google.

I am one of those whose delight is looking something up in the book, only to be distracted by something far more interesting. Did you know, for instance, that Charles Darwin married a highly competent pianist, the daughter of Josiah Wedgwood, the potter? I soon forgot what it was I was looking up, but it might have been ‘dassie’.

I have a little family of these delightful creatures living in my neighbour’s roof. They look so complete and fussy. They are a nice replacement for my other little family at the house, the francolins. There are six of them who climb the hill every morning and ever evening to eat the seed I put out under the Norfolk pine. Father francolin is called, obviously, Benjamin. When the six of them are eating they are as neat as pins, hunched like seamstresses over their diligence.

CB

15/1/10