takataka (Swahili): rubbish

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It's about ten weeks since we left Uruguay, and the boxes which inspired many an artistic work of art now have a provisional departure datebfrom Montevideo port: 23 October, expected to reach Antwerp on 15 November (yeah, yeah, the last lot of boxes took three months to cross the oceans between Tanzania and Uruguay). These particular boxes are filled with books, CDs, kitchenware, clothes, and the sort of stuff one accumulates over eight years. Lots of lovely artefacts that won't fit anywhere.

But there's another pile of boxes, filled with a lifetime of takataka, sitting in a warehouse in Brussels. These were packed up from our house outside Brussels before we left eight years ago. And I've just found the list. Fortunately each of the 191 items does not always represent an entire box. Every cushion. and every shelf seems to be listed separately.

Now why did we store a broken exercise bike, an ancient TV which never worked properly, a sofa-bed which is huge and whose mechanism never functioned? A child's bicycle? Three children's frustration-scratched desks? Garden furniture? I guess we didn't realise we were leaving for eight years. We didn't realise the kids would have flown the nest by the time we returned. And we didn't realise we would be moving into an apartment.

On 17 October these 191 items, contents of our rambly family house out in the country, will be hauled up to the seventh floor of the apartment block where we will live. Not via the lift, because that's not allowed, but up an external elevator and through a window. And there I will start to sort - and sneak stuff down the lift and out again. And then, when I've just about recovered, and have bought the essentials we need with which to live (sheets, toaster, a kettle, a couple of towels, a saucepan ...) the next lot will arive, containing the essentials we need with which to live (sheets, toaster, a kettle, a couple of towels, a saucepan ...).

For ten weeks we have been living quite happily with the contents of two suitcases each. Admittedly, we have been in furnished accommodation, and that makes a difference. But I do wonder about the real value of stuff, as opposed to the freedom of not having it. Although I think about the boxes a lot, they represent order as they are, neatly stacked in two warehouses in two continents. The idea of opening them is a chaotic nightmare.

What have I missed? From the Uruguay boxes, my printer, perhaps. And my marriage certificate (see previous post). And presumably once we move we will need sheets, toaster, a kettle, a couple of towels, a saucepan ...

And from the Brussels boxes? Just one thing. The long jade green and black striped dressing gown which my mother bought for me in Italy in September 1972 when I left home to go to university in Edinburgh. The most beautiful dressing-gown you've ever seen. It represents adulthood. It represents sophistication.

I wonder if I can send an e-mail to Uruguay saying 'just the printer and the marriage certificate, please, and sheets, toaster, a kettle, a couple of towels, a saucepan ... ', and one to the Brussels warehouse saying 'item 43, please: the Dressing Gown.'

But maybe we'll need a bed. And a table. And a couple of chairs. And a cupboard. And oh, the blue carpet is nice. And Grandpa's desk. And the kids' first drawings. And my nice Argentine poncho for the winter. And the Peter Rabbit mugs...