Recently (if this term can cover a period of up to three years) I have a feeling that my life has been a constant commuting from point A to B. Indeed, I have moved numbers of times for different reason, and besides that, well, I live in London. What venture it truly is, no one knows better than a friend of mine who has been helping me to move my life's possesions, equally divided between eighty plastic bags. He had a moment of doubt after he saw a bag full of eggs going into his van, but come on, a whole bag of eggs, I couldn't just leave it behind!
My mother used to call me a 'world famous trash collector', for my blame lies not in buying things: rather the difficulty in leaving anything that lies abandoned on a street unattended. I've found wonders on my way during my lifetime: a first-class iron, a sassy carrier bag, a laundry dryer to name a few. It might come easy to dispose of something hastily bought on discount, or an unwanted gift from last Christmas, but it will never seem right to get rid of something that had been placed on your way by destiny, to materialize itself in front of you, yours for the taking. That's how I've been explaining to myself my ownership of over two hundred old flyers from events I didn't go to and few issues of 'Metro' I didn't have time to read. I am not going to mention pens, pencils and hair elastics and few other things that I am unsure of what they are. I never bothered to understand motives of people who throw things away. I thought it was another 'scandi' fashion, and just like misunderstood hygge, all-white decor and love for IKEA, it will pass, the way any trend does. But that was before I heard of dan-sha-ri.
